


30 days of Sherlock

by SherlocksSister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Days of Sherlock, Addiction, BAMF Anthea, BAMF Molly Hooper, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, BAMF Sally, BAMF!Mummy, BAMF!Mummy is back, Bad Poetry, Caring Sherlock, Declarations Of Love, Doctor Strange - Freeform, Family Secrets, Gardening, Gen, Humour, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John's season 4 hair, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlockary - Freeform, Kissing, Loving Marriage, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parent!lock, Patient John, Pet Names, Research, Romance, Season 4 predictions, Sensory Overload, Shaving, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock and the matchbox, Shopping, Sleep Deprivation, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weddings, done with the fluff, terms of endearment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-12 18:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 26,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7945585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My entries for The 30 Days of Sherlock Challenge by unremarkableawakening on Tumblr,<br/>Chapter 26 is my last Chapter! This is for the combined prompts of eyes and glasses.</p><p>"He reached out to the bedside locker and picked up Sherlock’s glasses from where they lay, as always, lenses faced down and automatically turned them over so they were arms down in order save the lenses from being scratched. He knew it didn’t matter now but did it anyway."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Errand of Mercy

****

Errand of Mercy

The overhead fluorescent lights were making a tick-tick-tick sound that joined the beep-beep-beeps gradually overpowering his brain. It compounded the screeching child dancing on his tautly drawn nerves and his nasal cavity burned with the synthetic smell of deodorant coming from the man perusing the shelf next to him. Sherlock had once asked for John’s assistance during a smell cataloguing experiment and had been informed that this particular scent was called “Lynx Africa”. Sherlock remained astounded by the number of men who chose to use it.

His eyes flicked over and back across the shelf in front of him, cataloguing the number of items available. He began to organise them by price, quantity, packaging colour, manufacturer, country of origin and a Venn diagram appeared in his mind’s eye of the varied benefits of each product in an attempt to make the optimum choice. He tentatively put out a hand, his fingers wiggling slightly as they hovered over the box. He scowled and snapped it back again.

Despite this wealth of data, he was still unable to make a decision.

He became peripherally aware that he may have drawn some attention. A couple of teenage girls to his left were nudging each other and nodding their heads towards him. A smartly dressed woman narrowly avoided hitting him with her trolley as she leaned past him with a sigh to remove a packet and throw it into the trolley. Sherlock glared at her for the intrusion.

His phone beeped with a message from John.

**Where the hell are you, I’m dying here**

The text galvanised him into action. He needed more specialised help. Coat flying as he spun into action and narrowly missing falling over a toddler, Sherlock headed into the smaller shop three doors down. Here he breathed a sigh of relief, the selection was much smaller and more to the point there was expert help available, it said so on the sign over the counter.

**If you are not back here in 5 mins I’m calling Mycroft**

After a rapid consultation, Sherlock fled with his purchases and ran home, ran up the stairs of 221b and into his bedroom, where his John lay, eyes closed. Sherlock let out a small cry of panic.

“What the fuck took you so long to get a packet of paracetamol and some tissues?” asked a bunged-up John from under the duvet, sneezing as he pulled himself up to lean on the headboard.

“Please tell me you remembered the milk, I’m gagging for a cup of tea”.

Sherlock dropped the small paper bag to the bed, paused for a moment gazing balefully at John and silently turned on his heel and headed out once more.


	2. The Apple Never Falls Far from the Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'gardening'. Sherlock and his Mother come to a new understanding.

“Sherlock, I need to empty the compost bucket of all these peelings and bring up some rosemary for the stuffing, will you help me please”.

Sherlock knows from Mummy’s tone that objecting is pointless but his sigh as he heaves himself from his chair is as pointed as the end of Mycroft’s umbrella. Wordlessly carrying the compost bucket and trudging after his mother, Sherlock is transported back to being eight and remembers anew why he loathes coming here.

The silent pair head down the path across the lawn and down towards the small orchard and herb garden, revived by Mr Holme’s loving tender care from the remnants of a more ancient garden. Pausing to point at an overgrown patch, fronds of long grass crisp in the frost, Sherlock’s mother turns to her youngest son:

“Do you remember when you insisted on having a garden bed all of your own? You had to be allowed to dig it over, plant it up and tend it all by yourself”.

Sherlock nods but frowns slightly, perfectly able to remember his short-lived foray into gardening but trying to pin down how old he had been at the time,

“You were four,” Mummy smiles. “Barely big enough to lift the spade but powered entirely by your own determination. That was when I knew for certain you were my boy”.

“Who else’s boy would you have thought me to be?”

Lifting her hand to stroke her son’s cheek and then patting his chest Mummy ignores the condescension. She has had a lot of practise.

“Sherlock, at the age of four you knew the names of over two hundred different plants, both Latin and common. You could list off their uses both medicinal and lethal, their methods of reproduction and even the chemical compounds that could be derived from the plants and their uses. Who taught you all that?”

Sherlock considered for moment. He recalled doing a lot of reading but more, a lot of conversations with his mother over the kitchen table and just here on this very spot.

“You and I are so alike my darling, in so many ways, ways even you cannot see or know. They say the apple never falls far from the tree and you are my apple so much more than your brothers. There are things you don’t know about me Sherlock, things I did and was before I met your father”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“I have a.. a sense that things may be changing for you very soon. You have been through so much already and I need you to know that I understand. I have faced my own challenges, some not so different from yours. I survived them and so will you, my beautiful boy”.

Sherlock stared at his mother, tiny fragments from his youth falling into a pattern, an impossible, ridiculous idea forming at the back of his head. His mother stood waiting and half smiled as her son deduced and eliminated in front of her eyes, memories clicking into place. When his eyes met hers again she saw the realisation and new appreciation there.

“Mycroft is simply following in the family business?” Mummy Holmes remains silent but gives the smallest of nods. Turning suddenly, she continues on down the path towards the orchard.

“Your generation have had so many more opportunities than mine. I made sure you had the freedom to embrace all that life had to offer you, to truly be yourself, body and soul. I did not always have that freedom, Sherlock. I do not want to upset you but there was a time that marriage and a family were the last things in the world I wanted. I too have seen darkness, experienced self-destruction but I was rescued”.

“Rescued?”

“The same way you were saved, darling boy. By the love of a good man”. Sherlock nods, almost imperceptibly.

“You …. Retired?”

“Had to. I needed to disappear, things had got rather fraught. So your father and I married and I became the person you know, a mother, wife, mathematician”.

“Have you ever, I mean, did you ever return to your work?”

“Occasionally, but only at a very long distance. Some code breaking, that kind of thing. I had to keep my boys all safe”. Sherlock studies her face intently, seeing that this is mostly, but not entirely, the truth.

“Why are you telling me all this now?”

Sherlock’s mother stares up into those narrowed, aquamarine eyes, so like her own.

“You need you to know I understand Sherlock,” intent sparking in her own bluer eyes, “that whatever you do, whatever the future brings to our door, I am here. That I love you, no matter what. That I understand what it is to make sacrifices for those you love, to give something precious up and what that does to you”.

They walked to the bottom of the garden as a new shape shifted and clicked into place in Sherlock’s mind. The bucket emptied and rosemary picked, they wordlessly headed back to the house. On the back step, Sherlock leaves his hand on his mother’s arm and leans down to kiss her cheek and understands that as he and Mycroft launch into their dangerous plan, he has a new secret weapon.


	3. Double Edged Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'Gifts' 
> 
> A missing scene during His Last Vow, in the bathroom of 221b after John finds him in the drugs den. Sherlock only has a few minutes alone before Janine joins him.

“I need a bath”

Sherlock removes himself from this cacophony of self-righteous condemnation of his drug use. Alone again, he starts to draw a bath then moves to the sink to begin the ritual of shaving. The morphine now wearing off, his face is sore from the slaps Molly gave him in the lab. Why had she been so surprised, he was a junkie? Why were they all so surprised? John had been gone for nearly a month, no word, no contact until today. What else did they expect him to do? How else would he fill this abysmal hole in his heart?

Lathering up his shaving foam, Sherlock concentrates on carefully smoothing it on his chapped cheeks. ‘How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with’ Molly had demanded. What gifts, exactly was Molly referring to? His intelligence, memory, puzzle solving? Were they really gifts? Was he wrong to numb himself, make himself forget?

Checking the bath, he returned to the mirror, scraping the razor carefully down each cheek, moving it in long, slow, careful strokes to his chin. What about his other gifts though, the ones people so often wished he didn’t have? Brutal honesty, manipulation and deception. These were all as much what made him Sherlock as those abilities Molly so venerated.

Wiping steam from the mirror so he could see the delicate skin of his neck, Sherlock thought of the engagement ring sitting in the back of his wardrobe. Would Molly consider his utter disregard of other people’s feelings to be a gift? Would she still think him gifted when she knew he was going to propose to another woman just to manipulate her into letting Sherlock into Magnussen’s office?

Wiping the excess foam from his face, for the first time Sherlock met his own eyes in the mirror. What must it be like inside other people’s tiny little minds? Was it was peaceful, calm, content and, god forbid, happy? Would he give up all his own extraordinary abilities to have that?

Turning off the taps and stripping the filthy hoody and tracksuit bottoms, throwing them into the corner of the bathroom, Sherlock looked down at his own scarred body, the older marks on the inside of his arms and the newer ones on his feet. Sinking carefully into the hot water, enveloping him its soft gentleness, he thought again of John, of his bravery, friendship, care and loyalty. True gifts. If John knew what he was about to do, John would understand why Sherlock took the drugs, to hide from himself, from these so-called ‘gifts’.

“Hi, room for a little one”? Janine giggled, coming in the door.


	4. Constant Craving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second story of the day for the prompt 'Kisses', which means I am now back on track with the challenge.
> 
> "Sherlock, mindful of his manners, just about managed a “John, I ..” before pulling John’s chair back from the desk and throwing his leg across his blogger who suddenly had a very full lap of whimpering detective".

Face firmly planted into the pillow, Sherlock gently floated back into consciousness, stretching muscles stiff from being pushed to their limits the day before. Easing over onto his back, he checked the time only to be astounded to see 8.47 on his bedside clock. It had been, he calculated, 4 years and 7 months since he had slept so late after such an early night. Light was streaming in the window and it was so bright he had to close his eyes again to let them adjust. It was then that the _need_ hit him, the urge growing and blooming into a burn.

Risking another attempt at opening his eyes again, it only confirmed his conclusion from the data that he had already collected. The bed was empty. His body vibrated with need and there was nothing he could do to moderate this addiction, no claims here of being in control of it. Sherlock wrapped himself in a sheet and went in search of a fix.

John was in the kitchen making tea and looking up greeted Sherlock with a cheery, “Good morning beautiful”. Sherlock merely grunted and launched himself at full speed at John, crowding in between him and the kitchen counter. He began just stroking his own lips over Johns before pressing in to a proper kiss, nibbling at John’s lower lip before slowly bringing his tongue in to slide and flutter against John’s. Sherlock slowly relaxed again, the desperate fiery craving cooling. He opened his eyes and gazed down at the slightly surprised John, smiled and without a word, headed for the bathroom.

Sherlock just about managed to shower, shave and even get dressed before the tickle began again at the back of his brain. He was rather proud of having got so much done. It didn’t take long before the tickle became an itch, then transformed into a dense pressure in his solar plexus. This time he prowled out of the bedroom in search of his next fix.

John was sat at the desk, painstakingly working on his latest blog entry. Sherlock, mindful of his manners, just about managed a “John, I ..” before pulling John’s chair back from the desk and throwing his leg across his blogger who suddenly had a very full lap of whimpering detective. Utterly unable to wait any longer, Sherlock plunged in, wrapping himself bodily around John and peppering his face and neck with floaty little pecks before drawing John into a deep, soft exploration of tongues and teeth. Parting, Sherlock let out a long, shaky sigh, stood, grabbed his suit jacket and headed for the flat door. He had a rather interesting spleen awaiting him at the morgue. Poor John was left panting slightly and indescribably hard.

Just over an hour and a half later a desperate, sweating Sherlock burst in the flat door eyes flicking from side to side searching out his dealer. He had badly misjudged it, gone too far away and stayed too long. John had been sat in his chair browsing on his phone but had leapt up alarmed, certain Sherlock was hurt, being chased or even both.

“John, please, I, I’m sorry but please John” Sherlock managed before clutching at John’s shoulder and pulling him in. This time John began to chuckle and was able to defend himself slightly before being devoured entirely, gently holding Sherlock’s face and pulling him down into a gentle, caressing kiss, covering Sherlock’s eyelids, ear tips, forehead and tip of his nose in tiny kisses before kissing him on the lips over and over until he had a melted, crooning mad genius in his arms.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with Sherlock working at the kitchen table while John prepared dinner. He fed his addiction with a steady drip feed of small individual kisses, leaning back on his stool as John passed back and forth, lips offered up as he blocked John’s path until he got his way. Dinner eaten, Sherlock kept John close, even going so far as helping with the washing up so he could peck at John’s cheek when he couldn’t hold back any longer.

The situation came somewhat to a head though when John took a phone call from Harry. As far as he could deduce from the one-sided conversation, Harry and Clara were having yet another crisis and Harry was deep in consultation with her big brother on what her next step should be. Sherlock distracted himself for a while by checking his latest experiment and documenting his conclusions from the spleen he had visited earlier. However the phone call went on much longer than Sherlock could tolerate and the craving returned in earnest. He tried to get to John’s lips under the mobile phone but was batted away the first time and given a substantial shove in the chest the second time. The third time he attempted to insinuate himself around John’s elbow he was greeted with Captain Watson’s most intimidating stare. Sherlock withdrew carefully. Even he knew when he was warned.

He took refuge on the sofa, peering over the top of his laptop at John longingly. When the call was finally ended, he threw the laptop to one side with intent but was cut off at the pass by John:

“Seriously Sherlock, I am loving all this attention and affection but I could do without the pouncing. I’m not entirely sure why you seem particularly um, clingy, today but I think we need to address it head on”.

Sherlock nodded and watched in wonder as John disappeared into the bedroom, reappearing with their softest fleecy blanket and Sherlock’s old grey T shirt. John pulled off his cardigan and checked shirt, unbuttoned Sherlock’s pale blue shirt and handed him the T shirt.

“Put that on and lie down on the sofa. We’re going to do this properly”.

Doing as he was told, Sherlock was overjoyed when John lay down next to him, wrapping his arm across his chest, pulled the blanket over them and began to gently kiss Sherlock’s hair, fingers and lips.

They stayed like that until it grew dark, exchanging pets and kisses, small words of love and affection and long stretches of just lying quietly together. Finally, John began to doze off and they agreed to retire to bed.

As John leaned over to give Sherlock a good night kiss, his last of the day, a thought occurred to John:

“You’re going to have to go cold turkey tomorrow Sherlock. I have a shift at the clinic”.

Sherlock considered for just a moment “I’ll just have to come with you”.


	5. How to Work at your Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is Sherlock taking scientific marriage advice, as only Sherlock can.  
> For the prompt 'Work'

It was on a Thursday at 10.47 a.m. that Sherlock Holmes had an epiphany about his marriage to John Watson, when the latest research round-up email from PsychToday landed to his inbox.

It was one of his favourite journals, full of useful information such as the latest research into the signs of psychopathy or how the effects of trauma can be passed down from parent to child. The occasional high-functioning sociopath even turned up. Today’s email, however, fell into the category of relationship psychology and was entitled ‘How to Work at your Marriage: 5 Steps to a Successful Relationship’.

Ordinarily, Sherlock would have little interest in such articles, dismissing them as ‘irrelevant, John, just opinions and anecdotes masquerading as fact’. Much to Sherlock’s surprise, this one was actually based on a properly designed scientific long-term study of 373 couples married since 1986 and demographically representative of the American population. What began as academic interest changed when he read the very first piece of data; 46 percent of the marriages studied had ended in divorce.

Sherlock had never before contemplated working on his relationship with John. He had never considered putting any effort at all into any relationship ever, except those that were temporarily useful for a case. He was aware though that a number of people in his life put some, and in one or two cases a gargantuan amount, of effort into their relationship with him. Top of that list was his beloved John, and divorce from John was most assuredly not an option. Therefore, Sherlock concluded, he should consider implementing the guidelines suggested in this study. Having re-read it twice, Sherlock retreated to his Mind Place to come up with a plan.

Three hours later, Sherlock emerged to find 2 cold cups of tea on the coffee table next to him and a plate of Jaffa cakes. He was a little concerned. He was clearly being very non-industrious in his two year marriage and if he was to save them from impending doom, he need to put a plan into action immediately. He considered setting out a colour-coded spreadsheet but decided that, in this instance, time was of the essence, so he made do with a checklist in his Evernote app on his phone to work through by the end of the week.

**Step 1 – Expect Less and Get More from your Partner**

Sherlock felt that he was already excelling at this step. John already had very few expectations of Sherlock to help with daily chores, cook food or even reach for his own phone. Immediately, he stood from the sofa, brought the cold mugs of tea to the sink, emptied them and rinsed them under the tap. He momentarily thought of drying them but felt that might be a bit excessive. He resolved to do this at least every second day. In the end, he actually managed it twice that week plus helping John by reminding him they needed milk.

Sherlock had been particularly intrigued by the statement in the research that ‘conflict is not a relationship’s kryptonite but inevitable and healthy’. Once he had finished Googling what Kryptonite was, he concluded smugly that there was already sufficient conflict in his relationship with John and that John’s most recent offering of ‘you utter bell end, Sherlock, give Greg back his wallet’ was, in fact, a term of affection and proof of their successful communication.

**Step 2 – Give Incentives and Rewards**

The research report specifically stated that you should ‘let your partner know that they’re special, valued and you don’t take them for granted’. Sherlock gave this some thought. Of course, John was very special indeed, but did he know this? The report went on to state that ‘positive daily affirmations’ were a simple way to do this. Sherlock was a little more stumped by this one, again having to Google what positive affirmations meant. In the end he decided that he would send John a daily text to remind him of his specialness. He spent quite some time on these and was very happy with the first:

_I consider you to be far less stupid than all the other idiots in the world. SH_

And even his second,

_I love you John, you make very good tea. SH_

His third had been a bit of a struggle,

_John, I adore your clavicle. SH_

His fourth effort turned out to be his last as John had objected loudly and for quite some time to,

_I believe you to have the most beautiful anus and carry a picture of it with me on my phone at all times. SH_

**Step 3 – Have Daily Briefings for Improved Communications**

This step had not quite gone to plan. Sherlock had scheduled the meetings to take place at the kitchen table each morning at 9.00 and had even gone as far as to put it in his Google calendar and send John an invitation. He prepared an agenda and brought a note book to take minutes. Unfortunately, the first morning John had just glared at him over his tea and told him he was not awake enough for a meeting. The second morning had been even worse because John had been at work and Sherlock had been forced to conduct the meeting on his own. He had provided John with a copy of the minutes. The third morning he was already out and about himself, shinning down a drainpipe in pursuit of a burglar. He decided that maybe it wasn’t really working.

**Step 4 – Implement Change**

This step gave Sherlock most cause for concern as he wasn’t in the slightest bit inclined to change anything about John and was most certain that the feeling was mutual. After much consideration in relation to such things as hair styles, new furniture or taking John for their Friday night date to a restaurant that was not Angelo’s, he eventually settled on buying himself a new white shirt and replacing some of John’s older jumpers as a surprise.

**Step 5 – Make Sure the Positives Outweigh the Negatives**

The report listed the top five negatives in a relationship as: constant fighting, miscommunication, household chores, jealousy and keeping secrets and that it was important to strengthen what was going well. Sherlock was by now confident that he had successfully addressed the first three. Jealousy was a little bit of an issue for them, more so for John but when Sherlock recalled the delicious blow job he had recently received from John after flirting with a female suspect in an attempt to elicit information, he decided that maybe it was not all bad.

Secrets, however, he agreed were terrible. On their wedding day, both had promised each other to not keep any secrets. Of course, everyone present had known they were referring to Reichenbach but no-one mentioned it.

As so it was that after five days of Sherlock working _very_ hard at his marriage, he decided to tell John. They were in the middle of a heated, but healthy, conflict over the loss of John’s old, and he claimed, favourite jumpers, when Sherlock chose to tell his husband of his plan to improve their marriage.

Once John had calmed down, he had taken Sherlock in his arms, kissed him slowly and tenderly, including that spot on the back of Sherlock’s neck that made him go a bit wobbly and then taken him to bed, where John had conclusively proven that theirs was a very happy marriage indeed. Lying in his arms later that night, however, Sherlock had conceded that maybe John had a point when he suggested that such guides were not meant for marriages like theirs. John was certain the sample had not included any genius consulting detectives and Sherlock was inclined to agree as he was beginning to find the whole thing very hard work. So John was declared right again and it was agreed they should carry on as they always had before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The research report in this story is real, as are the five steps outlined, with a few tweaks. The author of the report is Dr. Teri Orbuch Ph.D. You can read about it here [5 Steps to a Succesful Marriage](http://psychcentral.com/lib/5-steps-to-a-successful-marriage/)
> 
> I take full responsibility for Sherlock's interpretation of it.


	6. An Ode to John Watson's Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is so effected by John's new Season 4 hairstyle that he is moved to write poetry

A note left on John’s pillow, following a heated discussion on John’s decision to ‘try something new’ with his har.

 

**An Ode to John Watson’s New Hair**

**By Sherlock s. Holmes**

 

It’s rare for me to write poetry John,

In truth this is totally new.

Surprisingly I must admit I was wrong,

When I was unsure of your ‘do.

 

The sweep and the sworl of your keratin strands,

Has moved me past all I can say,

The silvered parabola and how it lands,

Affects me in a shocking way.

 

This argent ellipse with its swoop and bend,

Has transformed me into a bard.

So tell me did you always intend

It would make me so very hard?


	7. Terms of Endearment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'Love'. Sherlock tries something new.

Sherlock Holmes was entirely used to being called someone’s ‘love’. It was a common enough occurrence when you lived in London:

“Can I help you, love?”

“You alright there, love?”

“Let’s get that bandaged up for you, love, and then you’ll feel much better”.

The first time it had fallen from John Watson’s lips, however had been a much more cataclysmic event. Sherlock had, at first, thought he was experiencing auditory hallucinations caused by the massive blow to the head from a falling plank of wood as he and John attempted to climb into the abandoned house.

John had been leaning over him as he regained consciousness and was gently touching the bleeding spot on Sherlock's head:

“Oh love, what have to done to yourself this time?”, John had muttered.

Sherlock felt his heart stop, then stutter back again as he repressed the swell in his chest with the idea that, of course, it was not real. Forcing his eyes open to ensure he was fully conscious, he met John’s smiling face:

“Welcome back love. Don’t move just yet, I need to check your neck”.

This time Sherlock couldn’t decide if he was hallucinating or not and frankly, he didn’t care. He decided that if he was hearing things, he would blame his next act entirely on concussion. But if he wasn’t then… Ignoring his doctor’s good advice, Sherlock lifted his arms and pulled John down until their lips met and they kissed, the most longed for and wondrous kiss of Sherlock’s life.

That had been three years ago now and hearing John call him ‘love’ remained one of Sherlock’s most treasured and pleasurable things, which was just as well because John said it a lot:

“Do you want honey on your toast, love?”

“Look, love. I know Mycroft is exasperating, but just this once, can we please not get into it?”

“Sherlock. Love. What the buggering _fuck_ is that severed hand doing in the bathroom sink?”

He never took it for granted, never having expected to be someone’s actual 'love'. Every single time Sherlock heard it, he felt the warmth spread from throughout his stomach and chest. He was particularly partial to a tipsy John coming home after a few pints with Lestrade, draping himself around Sherlock’s neck and grinning:

“Sherlock! You are my one shrue love, d’ja know that? Do you my lovitty-love-love? You’re my daaarlin’, my babe-alicious, my sweetheart, I lurrrrve you, love”.

His absolute favourite way for John to call him ‘love’, though was in that deep, urgent tone, whispered into his ear:

“Oh that’s it my beautiful boy, God you are so glorious, Sherlock spread out like this under my hands and my tongue, come for me now Sherlock, come for me love”.

Sherlock was himself not naturally disposed to drip terms of affection from his tongue. As far as he was concerned, the word ‘John’ encapsulated all that was good and beautiful in the world and so what else would he need to say?

This Saturday morning, though, Sherlock was in a particularly ebullient mood, lying as he was in John’s arms licking morning toast honey from his fingers and basking in the afterglow of their sleepy and sensuous lovemaking. And it _had_ been lovemaking, he thought and was moved to try something new:

“John, my love, when you have finished your breakfast, would you be averse to my bringing you to orgasm once more?”

John’s eyes flickered his surprise at the pet name but he said nothing, instead smiling like a loon and leaning in for a kiss,

“That would be delightful, love”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was partly inspired by my husband, who like Sherlock, is not given to terms of endearment or pet names. It means that the odd time he uses one it brings me up short with delight.


	8. A Waltz for John and Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'Cuddles', this was supposed to go one way but grew its own legs, veered off course and turned into 100%, pure, unadulterated fluff. Don't say you weren't warned

Everything had gone to plan. The late June weather had been kind to them and they had been able to hold the ceremony outside in the garden after all, much to Sherlock’s delight. The white chairs had been set up on the patio facing the large windows into the back of the house and a marquee filled the lawn. It was agreed to keep the guest list small, John in particular wanting to ring the changes from his first wedding.

They had dispensed with a lot of the usual trimmings, no need for bouquets of flowers, bridesmaids, fancy cars, ushers or top hats. The grooms wore matching grey silk suits with a simple white rose in their lapel. Their original plan had been to walk up the isle between the chairs together holding hands but Mummy was having none of that, absolutely insisting on walking her beautiful boy up the aisle. Not wanting to be out done, Harry also stepped up to the mark and escorted John so that all four of them walked side by side to where Mycroft was waiting for them underneath the honeysuckle-trained arbour.

Each man made a promise. Sherlock promised to share his life with John, to be honest and open, to always keep him close and protected. He also promised John he would give him a life full of danger and adventure. Mrs. Hudson had been coping very well up to this point but the last promise had produced a little sob.

In turn, John promised to share his life with Sherlock, to care for him and be his shelter from the world, be the centre of calm he could always return to and translator of the world and conductor of light. For his part, John promised to always patch Sherlock up and keep the scarring to a minimum. This produced a nod of approval from Molly.

Identical plain platinum rings were exchanged, each man simply saying “I love you”. When Mycroft declared them “husband and husband”, the small gathering stood and applauded as John pulled Sherlock into a long kiss.

John had spent long hours designing the dinner menu, to be served in the marquee. Champagne cocktails were served, followed by a selection of tasty morsels to tempt his new husband’s fussy palette. All the guests sat together around one large table, a pianist playing gently in the background and fairly lights lighting the marquee as the sun set in pinks and mauves over the Holmes’ garden.

Sherlock was indisputably happy. All the people he loved were here with him to celebrate the day he never thought would come. That John had asked him to marry him was still a bit of a shock, his acceptance instantaneous in case John changed his mind. He was profoundly relaxed and full of uncharacteristic bonhomie. Dinner was cleared and the dancing began, Sherlock and John taking centre stage for their first dance. As their waltz came to an end, Sherlock buried his face in John’s shoulder as a tear escaped, finally letting go of the vestiges of pain from the last time they prepared for a wedding waltz. Neither man spoke, they just held tight to each other.

The disco took over and everyone danced and drank and laughed. It was a celebration of two great men, the triumph of love and the joy was infectious.

Late in the evening, Sherlock wandered back to the honeysuckle arbour, just for a moment, to take stock of the day and fix the image forever in his memory. He was surprised when a hand was gently left on his shoulder and turned to see Mycroft. Neither man said a word but turned to face each other. Mycroft stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his brother who squeezed back. It only lasted a moment and then, with a small smile, Mycroft returned to the party.


	9. Did you Miss Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after the events of TAB, Sherlock gets to work on finding Moriarty, or whoever is using his identity.

It had been sixteen days since Moriarty had filled the nation’s screens, crooned “Did you miss me?” and the plane had turned around.

For sixteen days, Sherlock had paced back and forth across the rug of 221b Baker Street, pinning notes, photos, charts and densely drawn mind-maps in a seething mass of data that almost covered the whole wall. When not pacing frenetically, he was lying inert on the sofa for hours, lost in the hallways of his Mind Palace. Intermittently, The Work was disrupted by the symptoms of withdrawal that reduced Sherlock to a sweating, shaking mess hunched in the corner of the room. John did his best to help. The only things he ate were Mrs Hudson’s scones, dutifully delivered every morning with a largely ignored ‘coo-ee’.

The one fixed point in each day was the arrival of a black limousine at the door and a visit to Molly in Barts for a urine test, one of the conditions of his brother’s arrangement with ‘England’ for him to remain at liberty. Occasionally he also took up residence in the laboratory, responding to Molly’s enquiries with monosyllabic answers, or more often, a silencing look.

On the fourth day, a bomb was exploded on the Union Bridge that linked Horncliffe in Northumberland with Fishwick in Berwickshire. Two pedestrians walking their dog were killed. Sherlock received an email with a grinning face and the same question “Did you miss me?”

Mary and John looked on, doing their best to be a testing ground for ideas and theories. John would often accompany Sherlock to Barts or undertake leg work for Sherlock, while the increasingly large Mary acted as his online researcher. Some nights the pair would go home together to sleep, sometimes they would stay in Baker Street, taking Sherlock’s bed while he remained prostrate on the sofa. On the seventh day, there was another bomb, this time on Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire. Over a dozen drivers lost their lives. It was Greg Lestrade that received the grinning email this time.

Lestrade became a regular visitor to the flat, often bringing new papers to add to the wall. There were constant texts to and from Mycroft and even the occasional visit from the elder Holmes to the flat. Anthea also called a number of times to hand deliver a folder or USB stick.

On the tenth day, another bomb exploded. This time it was a railway bridge in Cambridgeshire. No one was killed as the train travelling across the bridge was empty but all the trains from London to the north were halted until the bridge could be repaired. It was John’s turn to receive the email.

On day twelve, there was a break in the routine. Sherlock and John rose early and were collected by a black limousine, Mycroft waiting in the back for them. They were making the trip to Sussex to Sherlock’s family. Mary was, by now, beginning to feel the weight of her pregnancy and decided to stay at home for the day. The three men returned to Baker Street that evening in a sombre mood and for the first time, John stayed at Baker Street, explaining to Mary in a quick phone call that it was going to be a ‘late one’ and she needed her sleep.

On day fourteen, the fourth bomb was found before it exploded. Moriarty, or whoever was using his identity, had been over ambitious and Sherlock had deduced the location and the army bomb disposal team had been dispatched to the Dartford Crossing to disarm the device before it exploded. Approximately three hundred lives were saved. It escaped no-one’s notice that the devices were getting closer and closer to London. No email was received that day.

On the morning of the 16th day, a one word text was sent to four different phones; “Smith”. Ten seconds later, Sherlock, John and Lestrade each received a text from Mycroft demanding their presence at the Diogenes. They went without question.

 

No one had seen or heard from any of them since.

__________________________

 

In a windowless room in the middle of a non-descript grey building, Anthea would have been unrecognisable to Sherlock or John. Hair pulled back into a severe bun, she was in her Army fatigues, with sand-coloured beret, the badge bearing the distinctive flame-wreathed Excalibur. Sat with her around the table were Mary Watson, Martha Hudson, Molly Hooper and Sargent Sally Donovan. None of the women were speaking and all turned as the door behind them opened. Anthea rose to her feet and saluted as Violet Holmes entered the room.

“Do sit down Major, it has been a very long time since I was saluted and even longer since I returned one.”

Violet sat next to Molly in the seat furthest from Mary.

“Ladies, I am sure you all understand why we have asked you here today. Mrs Watson, much consideration has been given to including you in this conversation, considering both your past and your impending situations. However, I have decided that for the time being, you may be useful so I shall proceed with my briefing. Just to be clear, following the events of the past 24 hours, Operation Flower Crowns is  now go.”

Mary was astonished to see all the other women in the room nodding in understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


	10. Red Balloons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out we have all been underestimating the women in Sherlock's life

A pale light shone on John’s face and he began to grasp for it, pushing up through the fog in his mind. Part of him was afraid to open his eyes but in the end he decided he had nothing to lose; if he was dead he needed to know that too. He only opened them for a fraction of a second, the light burning, and all he took in was grey and stone. Next, he became aware of the burning agony in his damaged shoulder and it was when he tried to stretch he realised he was unable to move, mostly because both wrists were handcuffed, although not together.

His attempts to move seemed to have disturbed someone as he heard a groan to his left. Braving another look, he opened his eyes long enough to see Greg Lestrade’s head pressing up against his own and his right wrist was handcuffed to Greg’s left. John made an attempt to speak but nothing came out. Another attempt to relieve the cramp in his shoulder elicited another groan.

“Fuck” Lestrade muttered “Where the fuck?”

John grunted in response, still trying to formulate words. The two men were then greeted by a long, drawn out whine of pain from what sounded like Mycroft Holmes and there was a pull on John’s left wrist. This time John managed to keep his eyes open long enough to see that his left wrist was indeed handcuffed to Mycroft who was leaning back to back with Greg. John too realised he was leaning back on someone, someone unmoving that he hoped was Sherlock. He grunted out his name but there was no answer.

Glacially slowly, John, Mycroft and Greg drifted back to full consciousness. Between them they were able to work out that they were in a small room built of stone with thin windows high up near the ceiling. Surrounding them were large pots of paint and brushes, wood and metal sheets leant up against the walls and a selection of hammers, pliers and other tools scattered around. It was clearly some kind of maintenance store room.

The three men checked themselves and were blessedly uninjured with no-one bleeding, which made a pleasant change, John thought. Greg and Mycroft confirmed that they were indeed handcuffed to Sherlock but that his head was still lolling forwards, unconscious. They tried shouting his name and pinching his hands to bring him back around but with no success. Mycroft confirmed there was a pulse at his wrist but that it was not very strong. John began to get very concerned.

_____________________

 

With a nod from Violet Holmes, Major Anthea McMillan began her tactical briefing:

“Our Unit has been remiss in its duties and we need to remedy that situation quickly by locating and retrieving our principals. Preliminary data indicates that each principal responded separately to a text message they believed to have been sent by Mycroft Holmes asking them to meet him at the Diogenes Club. This message was actually from an external source, routed through Mr. Holmes’ phone number. He himself left my care at ten hundred hours yesterday morning on route to Downing Street for a routine briefing. On that journey he was in the close protection of Captain Mark Dunne, later found dead in a nearby alley off Gainsford Street, just south of the Thames. He had been shot. The car has not been located”.

Behind Anthea, the screen showed the stolen car and a map of the location where Mycroft had last been seen. Mary had many questions but found herself automatically settling in to remember the key pieces of information and start to formulate ideas. She pushed the voice shouting ‘Someone’s got John’ to the very back of her head with practiced ease.

“As you are all aware, there is routine surveillance of all four principals using the City’s CCTV system. At 10.10 there was a system-wide disruption of this feed for three minutes. We are still tracking the source of that disruption. We have been unable to locate any principal on the system after 10.13. Have any of you received any communication from your principal since that time. Mrs. Watson, for the sake of this mission, I am allocating John Watson to you as your principal.”

Everyone around the table shook their heads except Molly.

“I received a text communication from Sherlock Holmes at 10.14 am. It just read ‘Mol’”

“No use of the duress code?”

“No”.

 “OK, our mission is to locate the principals, retrieve them alive and apprehend those responsible for their disappearance, all as quickly as possible. Colonel Holmes will be Mission Commander. Mrs. Watson, you will be in responsible for comms., Agent Hudson, as usual you will be in charge of armaments. Captain Hooper, Sergeant Donovan and I shall be in the field” She turned to Mrs. Holmes “Ma’am are you happy to debrief Mrs. Watson? Hooper and Donovan, with me. You’ll need to change”.

Mary suddenly found herself alone in a room with Violet Holmes and Martha Hudson. Her head was spinning with all the new information she was processing about these women and part of her wondered if it was all a joke.

Violet Holmes looked across the table at her:

“Be under no illusions, Mrs. Watson, I know precisely who and what you are. I also know what you did to my son”.

“Then why did you allow me into your home at Christmas? Why am I here?”

“Have you ever heard the expression ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer’? We have been watching you for a very long time Mary. I wanted to get to know you. You are here today for one very simple reason; this is your opportunity for redemption. I want my sons back unharmed and you have skills that we can use”.

Mary turned to the woman she had previously known as Mrs. Hudson,

“ _Agent_ Hudson?”

“Yes dear. CIA. Retired actually, but still on stand-by for duty. You seem surprised. You’re not the only one who has had to perfect an English accent over the years. Just so you know, dear, I shall not be issuing you with any arms and I understand your own have been secured. Also, I too know what you did to Sherlock and was against your involvement in this”.

Violet Holmes looked from Mary to Agent Hudson and sighed:

“I know this is all coming as a surprise and that is exactly how it should be if we have been doing our job properly. You are strictly on a need to know basis here but this much I will tell you. As a result of things that my sons know and have seen in their childhoods, Sherlock and Mycroft have had personal protection since they were two and nine respectively. In order to blend in as much as possible, this protection has always been at a certain distance and always female. When it became apparent a number of years ago that Greg Lestrade and John Watson were to remain permanent fixtures in their lives, protection was extended to them also. We are a special ops unit, derived from a number of services; Anthea and Molly are army – SAS to be precise, Martha here is, as you now know, CIA and Sally Donovan is a member of a specialist police taskforce.”

Unexpectedly, Mary laughed,

 “Oh I get it! Operation Flower Garland. You all form a circle of female guard. Oh very good”. Having been made perfectly clear how both women really felt about her, Mary decided to address one matter head on:

“If Sherlock has such protection, how come I was able to get so close to him? Why did you let me shoot him?”

Lifting her chin in a very familiar way, Commander Holmes continued:

“You have met my sons. We have had to come to certain agreements over the years as to the nature of their protection. Mycroft not so much but Sherlock hates the intrusion. He only goes along with it because he has seen the consequences for his eldest brother. He is allowed to make his own mistakes but we make sure he lives. Molly knew you were waiting for him in that office and was in the ambulance on its way before anyone called for it. She stabilised him and saved his life, the same way she protected him after his fall from Barts. Molly Hooper has been watching you for a very long time. I suggest you keep away from her”.

___________________________

 

Mycroft had deduced that they were being held somewhere very close to a main road, due to the clear sound of traffic. The regularity with which they heard the sirens of the emergency services also led him to conclude that they were still in London and the fact there was nothing obstructing the view of the sky from the windows suggested that they were high up. None of them had any memory of what had happened to them, the last memory each had being of sitting into a car to go to their intended destinations. Each in turn tried, unsuccessfully, to free themselves from the handcuffs. Sherlock was still passed out.

It was as they sat back again that Greg spotted the first red balloon. It floated past first one of the windows and then appeared at the second. Astonishingly, this window opened and the balloon floated into the room and fell slowly, coming to a gentle rest at Mycroft’s feet. It was rapidly followed by three more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh how I enjoyed revealing these women's true identities. To be continued.


	11. Tetranitromethane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A daring rescue and a surprise for Mary

“Commander, I want it on the record that I consider that woman to be a threat to this mission”, Martha Hudson pointed to the closed door they were marching away from.

“Do you think I am happy about it, Martha? She’s vile! The things she has done, least of all to my beautiful boy. Could you lay off ‘The Commander’ bit too when we are alone, we’ve been doing this for far too long. Speaking of which, how is the hip?”

“Well one never fully recovers from a bomb blast of course, especially when you were as close to it as I was, but it’s not too bad. How’s the leg?”

“Still sore when it rains, but could be worse. We got away very lightly”. Violet looked pointedly at Martha “Even if we are still dealing with the ramifications”.

“Well Com.. Violet, you can’t expect to bring the world back from nuclear disaster, get shot at by the Russians, blown up by the Chinese and expect to come away from it without a touch of arthritis. Whoever has our boys, they have no idea who they are dealing with! Don’t worry, we’ll get them back, safe and sound.”

“Indeed we shall and once the baby is born, I assure you _that one_ will be where she belongs”.

As command centres went, Mary felt this one was a bit disappointing. The older women had left the grey room only to be replaced by two silent young men who presented her with a lap top, a mobile comms unit head set, paper and pencil and most surprisingly of all, a bacon sandwich and tea which she all but inhaled with hunger. She began by opening up the sophisticated mapping software and looking for Gainsford Street, Mycroft’s last known location then marking the last known locations of the other three men. She was interrupted by Violets Holmes’ voice in the headset:

“Mary, we have received a connection to a live stream from the people we believe are holding the principals. I am patching it though to your laptop”.

From a vantage point that seemed to be in the top corner of a room, Mary could see the four men huddled together on the floor, all with their backs to one another. Sherlock was slumped over but the others appeared to be okay. As she watched, a red balloon in front of Mycroft popped, the noise echoing loudly around the stone walls and a small drone and a black walkie-talkie fell to the ground. It buzzed and crackled until a voice announced:

“Good Afternoon Gentlemen. Apologies for your inconvenience but this seemed the best way to get the attention of a particular someone. Inside the other two balloons is tetranitromethane. In exactly one hour, if I do not get the information I need, I shall detonate the small explosives in those balloons and this place will go up in flames and with all that paint lying around, it won’t take long for it to _really_ take hold. Violet Holmes to you hear me? Give me that code or watch your boys cook!”

There was small gasp in her head set, then a brief pause before the determined tones of Violet Holmes came through once more.

“I am giving that code to no one, it is not an option. We have to find them and get them out”.

Mary stared at the screen in front of her, once more displaying the map she had pulled up. She cycled through the information they already had about the men’s last locations, the history of the other bomb attacks and the little useful information she had from the video, especially the stone walls. In a flash of inspiration she pressed the button on the side of the comms unit:

“I know where they are. He’s got them in Tower Bridge. He’s going to blow up Tower Bridge”

_______________________

Sherlock hurt everywhere. He could hear voices but what they were saying made no sense to him and he wondered what language was being spoken. He tried to sit up a bit but the pain under his ribs and in his back almost made him wretch. He would just stay where he was and try to work out who had kidnapped him this time. He drifted off again, back into the grey haze.

Mycroft noticed the subtle shift of movement.

“John, I think Sherlock may be coming around at last”

After what they had just heard, John was no longer sure if that was good thing. If they were all going to burn alive then Sherlock was better off unconscious.

“What the hell is this all about, Mycroft? What has your mother got to do with all this?”

“Sorry John, you simply don’t have the security clearance for me to answer that but don’t worry, I’m sure Mummy has a plan, she usually does”.

Their conversation was brought to an abrupt halt by Sherlock vomiting all over the floor.

________________________

As soon as Mary had relayed her idea to Commander Holmes, two units of the SAS plus the field team of Flower Garland were dispatched to Tower Bridge, travelling by speed boat up the River Thames as the fastest form of transport in the congested city.

Mary watched proceedings from a camera strapped to Anthea’s shoulder as they scrambled up the steel ladders that led from the river up to the bridge and then up to the glass enclosed walkway. One team began the evacuation of tourists while the others undertook a reconnaissance of the bridge. She could hear the sirens of the police and emergency vehicles approaching by road and a helicopter, presumably circling above.

Mary stared at her screen in fascination as Anthea turned to say something to the person behind her. Molly Hooper was practically unrecognisable, wearing all black with a stab vest, tactical belt and carrying a Sig P230 handgun at chest level and a determined tilt of her chin as she signalled ‘up’ to Anthea.

The women climbed higher and higher into the bridge’s Victorian Battlements until they could go no further, coming to a standstill outside a metal door.

“Sir are you in there?” shouted Anthea. Mary could just about make out a muffled response. They had found them.

“We’re coming in!” Molly and Anthea yelled together.

“No!” screamed back Sherlock.

_____________________________

 

“What the hell, Sherlock?” yelled Lestrade, as Sherlock pulled on their shared handcuffs in an attempt to put a hand to his back. He was feeling clearer headed after throwing up but was in no less pain and began to suspect that whatever he had been given had compounded the damage he had already done to himself with overdose.  He could smell the oxidising chemical in the balloons and it was making him nauseous again.

“The tetranitromethane. It combusts spontaneously from strong vibrations. They have to come in gently”. He began to wretch again.

“Come in very carefully, no big movements, slowly and quietly” Mycroft communicated to the closed door.

The three women did as they were told, Sally quickly picking the door lock and only Anthea risking a step inside the room.

“Ok gents, we’re here to get you out but we have to get those handcuffs off first”. She whispered, creeping from one to the other on slow tiptoe, giving the balloons a wide berth. John, Mycroft and Lestrade were able to walk but Sherlock had to be half carried out, leaning heavily on John and Molly. The men were led to a waiting ambulance and once they were safely inside, Anthea turned off the camera, mission completed.

\------------------------------------

From behind her computer screen, Mary let out a sigh of relief. John was safe. She tapped on her headpiece again.

“Commander Holmes, can I go and see my husband now?”

“Oh no dear, you’re not going anywhere. Did you really think that now we have you that we are just going to let you go again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been having a few trying days in RL with work getting in the way of everything else, so I have some catching up to do.
> 
> This story wanted to be a lot longer and there are probably a few plot holes but I just needed to get it finished.


	12. Golden Matchbox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing in my flat?” Sherlock demanded “Who are you and where did you get my face?”

 

Sherlock would often return to that night in his Mind Palace. He had created a new room especially to store the person he had met and the place he had been shown. Until now, though, he had never told a living soul about it, not even John. In fact, until this very moment, he had convinced himself it had never really happened at all.

Three years previously, Sherlock had been alone, lying on the sofa deep in his Mind Palace searching for clues to the disappearance of a sixty four year old woman from the local swimming pool. He became aware of a disturbance in the walls, a golden light seeping through, a peculiar rippling and shifting in the air. Opening his eyes, Sherlock shot up off the sofa. Where the fireplace usually stood, solid and brown, was now a flickering golden whirlpool of light, shimmering with colours and energy. As Sherlock gawped, a man walked through the middle of the whirlpool, coming to a stop on their rug. He looked exactly like Sherlock, except that he was bearded and was wearing what Sherlock considered to be an extremely good red coat. He especially admired the collar.

For a moment the two men regarded each other, eye to eye, each looking deep into the grey-green maelstrom.

“What are you doing in my flat?” Sherlock demanded “Who are you and where did you get my face?”

“My name is Doctor Steven Strange. I was told by the Ancient One to come and find you, that we are the same you and I. I didn’t expect the sameness to be quite so literal”.

Sherlock circled the man, trying to find the tricks hidden to create such an apparition. This was an illusion, obviously, although Sherlock was still at a loss to know how it was done. “You’re American?”

“I grew up in America, yes. I have travelled widely and seen many spectacular things. Come, I need to show you something”.

Sherlock had been inspecting the fireplace and the wall opposite, looking for a projector or false wall. Doctor Strange held out his right hand to Sherlock and held out the left straight in front of him. The vortex of sparkling golden light reappeared and Strange began to lead Sherlock towards it.

“No!” Sherlock struggled to break free, “Where are you taking me?”

Before he could finish his sentence, Sherlock was standing at the top of a mountain, a foot deep in snow, the crisp, thin air in his lungs and enveloped by silence.

“One day, you will need something. Something to believe in. I am to give you a gift. It will remind you that everything you have experienced here today is true”. Strange handed Sherlock a matchbox.

“Whenever things are at their worst, open this and remember that there is more to this world than can be deduced and explained by logic. Some things just are”.

Sherlock had opened his eyes and found himself still on the sofa. It had all been a dream, he had fallen asleep in his Mind Palace. He sat at up and went to make tea.

Now here he was standing beside his desk, with John at his side looking at him expectantly. John had been cleaning and insisted they clear out all the old papers, abandoned chargers and mouldy half-eaten scones from underneath the sofa. Grumbling, Sherlock had reached in his hand and felt something rectangular that made the back of his brain itch. Pulling it out, he stared at the matchbox. He shook his head at himself as he stood up. This is silly, he thought, it’s only a matchbox. To prove it to himself he opened it.

Inside was a tiny, flickering golden whirlpool of light.

Sherlock glanced at John and smiled.

 

* * *

 

_I  really struggled with this story because so many of my other chapters have technically been an Alternate Universe. I considered all sorts of things, Medieval Sherlock, WingLock, ParentLock etc but nothing was working for me. Eventually I decided to be a bit more lateral about it and considered the prompt AU as the chemical symbol for gold instead. Which reminded me of the matchbox scene and how the light got in there. Having written the story, I Googled to double check the colour of Strange's cloak and found this, entitled Who Are You? by Kadeart on Tumblr. Just goes to show, there is no such thing as an orignal idea!_

_ _

 

 


	13. Redbeard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am falling behind so this short and sweet chapter combines the prompts for Animals and Comfort.

Redbeard tumbled out of the back door step with Sherlock flying behind him. They charged, pell-mell down the garden towards the orchard, picking up a blistering pace, hearts heaving and chests pumping, manes flowing behind them.

Cornering at the summer house they accelerated out over the lawn in pursuit of nefarious pirates, sword at the ready, battle cries filling the air. The fleet-footed Redbeard reached the battle ground first, woofing encouragement to his disadvantaged Captain on two legs. The trees were sliced and thrust into as the hoard of pirates were attacked, the battle won and the day saved.

Slumping to the grass, panting, Sherlock lay his head on his dog’s heaving flank, staring at the clouded sky and listening carefully for new incursions. Satisfied that none were coming, he turned onto his belly to bury his face in the luxurious, warm fur of his best friend, rubbing his ears and praising him for his courage in battle.

“You are my best friend, Redbeard”, the boy whispered, “My best friend. You are the only one that understands me, doesn’t call me names”.

Jumping to his feet again, Sherlock and his faithful crew wandered into the orchard once more. At the very bottom ran the hedge that separated the garden from the road. Behind it, Sherlock heard peculiar grunting and panting noises.

“It’s a wild boar, Redbeard. Quick, let’s trap it!” They plunged through the hedge, sword aloft, only to discover not a wild boar but Sherlock’s fifteen year old brother Sherrinford – and Annie Baker from the village.

“Sherlock, fuck off!” yelled the older brother, yanking his hand from the top of Annie’s T-shirt and trying to grab him. Sherlock recovered from his momentary shock and took off again at whirlwind speed back up the path, past the orchard, careening into the summer house.

Inside, Mycroft looked up from his exam revision to see his little brother, eyes wide in alarm, gasping. Felicia, Mycroft’s black and white cat was stretched beside him on the bench, half covering his military history text book, paws delicately crossed over a picture of Winston Churchill. When Mycroft stretched out his arms to his little brother, the cat yawned, stood up and relocated herself on a cushion further down the bench, eyeing Redbeard.

Sherlock paused, wondering if he was not too old for his brother’s comfort, but launching himself into the proffered arms none the less. He rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder for a moment, recovering from his fright, waiting for the question, the need to explain but Mycroft simply looked into his face and smiled, comforted to see his little brother seemed to be fine again.

They spent the next hour in companionable silence. Sherlock lay on the floor, head rested on Redbeard’s belly listening to his big brother reading excerpts from his revision notes and dreaming of one day saving the world.


	14. Dublin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Fall, in a wet Autumnal Dublin.

In another anonymous hotel room in yet another city, Sherlock sat on the end of the bed and stared at himself in the mirror opposite, forcing himself to stand and begin his day. He winced slightly at the pull of the healing leg injury and stopped to check the bandaging covering the deep gash. He thought of John and how he would have sat quietly and methodically drawn the torn skin together with butterfly sutures and gentle words. Sherlock would need to visit a pharmacy at some point today so he could redress it.

From the window Sherlock could see nothing but a grey industrial estate and, in the distance, the lights of Dublin airport. This was the closest he had been to home in fifteen months, just a ten minute taxi ride and a one hour flight and he could be back in Baker Street. He thought of John, pottering around the flat, making early morning tea and getting ready for a day at work. Of course, he knew John wasn’t still living in the flat but he liked to pretend.

Soon, he told himself, soon you can go home, but he had unfinished business here in Ireland. His painstaking unpicking of Moriarty’s network had brought him across Europe, Asia and America, each new contact revealing the name of the next destination. This one he had been putting off. This one scared him.

He breakfasted in his room on tea and toast. He ate the toast because he knew John would want him to, not because he was hungry. Sherlock headed out of the hotel into the early morning October drizzle, a pre-ordered cab waiting for him in the car park. He missed the elegance of London’s black cabs, their grandeur compared to the ubiquitous sedan cars in every other city. Maybe John was sitting in one now on his way somewhere. Where would John be going, he wondered?

His last contact, the one that sliced his calf so efficiently with a short, sharp blade, has been the first to laugh when informed that Moriarty was dead. Moriarty will never be dead, the woman had giggled as Sherlock held her own knife to her heart, never dead while there are still so many of them alive, so many other Moriartys. Sherlock had thought it the ravings of a mad woman until she had leaned into the blade, piercing her own chest and whispered,

“Sure, isn’t there a whole family of them?”

His research had confirmed it; there were 208 people living in Dublin alone with the surname Moriarty. At least one of them must be connected to Jim Moriarty, why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? Three more months of painstaking research had brought him here to this day.

The cab dropped him off outside a bland house on a housing estate of three hundred identical houses. He checked the knife sitting comfortably in the inside pocket of his coat and knocked on the door. If John was here, they would go in together, he thought as he waited for the door to open, or maybe John would wait around the corner with his Browning safely tucked away, ready to come and find Sherlock if he didn’t emerge from the house by the agreed time.

The man who answered the door took Sherlock’s breath away. The same brown eyes, the same dark hair albeit in a different style, the same smile. This man was expecting him.

“Hello Sherlock, I’m Patrick, do come in”. The same voice.

For just a moment he considered running, far, far away from this living ghost, but what good would that do? Where would he run to anyway?

They stood facing each other in the living room, each eying the other.

“You knew my brother then?”

“Yes. I was with him when he died”.

The man paused, looked down and away from Sherlock.

“Well that was a good day for us all”.

Sherlock was astonished, but kept his face passive and blank. He studied Patrick’s face, looking for signs of a trap. The man continued:

“I haven’t seen Jim since I was 14. He left home when he was 16, after years of doing nothing but cause trouble and pain for our family. Do you know he killed the pet cat when he was six? Just for fun. We all knew there was something not right with him and he terrorised us until he left. We never heard another word from him, just rumours that he was in London”.

Sherlock studied Patrick’s face carefully. This man was telling the truth, there was no threat to him here, no family network seeking revenge. Sherlock stepped back, towards the door.

“I have made a mistake, my apologies. If you will excuse me, I have a plane to catch. Thank you for meeting me”.

With that, Sherlock headed back out into the rain and his next destination, Serbia. One last place before he could go home. To John.

Behind him, Patrick Moriarty closed his front door.

He grinned devilishly to himself.


	15. Johanna Maria Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is written for JAT1981, my fellow 30 Day Challenger, in support of her choice to write Johnlockary rather than Johnlock, 'cos its all fine!

It hadn’t been an easy birth, what with Mary not being as young as she used to be and, it turned out, prone to long labours. Twenty three hours after the first pain, Johanna Marie Watson was born, a healthy 8lbs and 5oz. Dark-haired like her Mother ‘really, John, of course it’s dark’ with the exact same navy blue eyes as her Father, everyone who saw her was instantly smitten.

Molly brought a pink helium balloon and arrived to visit just ten minutes after Greg Lestrade who, having been through this himself brought John coffee, Mary a sandwich ‘Thank God, I’m starved’ and Johanna a bumper box of nappies. Mrs. Hudson brought the most beautiful hand-knitted blanket, worked on the diagonal in the softest bamboo yarn in shades of aubergine, plum and lilac.

Sherlock stood and watched as each visitor came and went. He had been the first person John had called when Mary went into labour and had actually been in the corridor waiting outside when she was born. John had popped his head out of the labour room and beckoned him in, ignoring Sherlock’s attempts at refusal. Sherlock smiled shyly at Mary sitting up in the bed, aware that he may be intruding. Mary had just smiled up at him tiredly and handed him a bundle of baby.

“Johanna, meet your would-be-Godfather-if-he-believed-in-such-things-or-Uncle-if-he-wasn’t-quite-so-literal-Sherlock”.

As he peered at the tiny face, Sherlock was entranced at the purity and vulnerability of this tiny girl. He didn’t need a priest or her parents to give him any title, at that exact moment Sherlock made her a promise in his heart to take care of her and be a friend when the rest of the world failed her.

It was just as well, as it turned out, because Sherlock ended up spending a considerable amount of time looking after Johanna. Certainly far more than anyone, most especially Sherlock, could have predicted.

From the night she was born, Mary knew there was something amiss with her baby. It wasn’t anything major, or obvious, just something she knew on instinct. Every time Mary tried to lay her daughter down, Johanna would settle just to start crying again a few minutes later. The midwife assured her it was perfectly normal for a new-born, so Mary resolutely soldiered on, feeding and winding until she herself was crying for want of sleep.

Once they got home from the hospital, Mary mentioned it to her visiting Public Health Nurse, who assured her the baby was just hungry and just needed a ‘top up’ to Mary’s own breast feeding.

At six weeks old, Johanna had still not been able to sleep in a lying position and Mary brought her to a paediatric consultant who declared Johanna a perfect and completely healthy baby.

It was at this point, in a moment of desperation, that they discovered Sherlock Holmes had a hidden talent – he was a baby whisperer. In an effort to help Mary get at least a small amount of sleep and to soothe his crying daughter, John had taken to giving Johanna her late feed, popping her in her car seat and brining her for a cruise around the quiet London streets. She rarely slept but it did seem to soothe her. One night, John headed for Baker Street and, unsurprised to find the lights still on, they went in to visit Sherlock.

Despite John’s best shushing and jiggling efforts, Johanna began to cry as soon as they got out of the car. In the flat, Sherlock immediately deduced the lack of sleep and last vestiges of patience from John’s face, although it was so obvious a short-sighted, two fingered sloth could have made the same deduction. Sherlock held out his arms for the crying child and sent John to his own room for a nap. It took two minutes and twenty six seconds for Sherlock to settle Johanna and John slept for four solid, unbroken hours. He awoke like a new man. A man with a plan.

So it was that for the next two and a half years, Sherlock Holmes called to the Watson home every Tuesday and Thursday at 6.30 p.m. exactly. He would be fed any dinner of his choosing, most often the thing with the peas, and then he would banish Johanna’s parents and work his magic while John and Mary caught up on some badly needed sleep. As far as Sherlock could work out, the magic was the result of a combination of three things, firstly, he kept her bolt upright on his shoulder. Secondly, he would jiggle Johanna at a remarkably fast pace up and down but very gently. Thirdly, and the reason John and Mary had to be banished, he would sing to the baby in a gentle, quiet, low rumbling of whatever came into his head.

Of course, John and Mary were very concerned by their daughter’s inability to sleep for longer than half an hour and had consulted many medical professionals along the way. In her infancy, the diagnosis had been colic or reflux, the cure being that ‘she will grow out of it by a year’. Every developmental check was ended by a conversation on the subject and every visit to the GP included an update:

“Is she sleeping through yet?”

“No.”

Mary stopped mentioning it or asking for help when a nurse suggested the solution was for herself and John to take a parenting course.

When it became apparent that Johanna wasn’t going to grow out of this and was potty trained but still getting up at least twice every night crying hysterically, her three primary carers, for Sherlock spent as much time with her as either parent, took her on as a case. John did the medical research and Sherlock cast his net wide and far. They narrowed it down to three most likely problems; night terrors, excessive fluid in the inner ear or a digestive problem, all aggravated when Johanna lay down. Appointments were made in with consultants in each of the fields.

On a cool day in February, John brought his daughter to the appointment with the Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist and a miracle occurred. As John was introducing them, the doctor was looking in his toddler’s throat. John was interrupted by the Consultant,

“Does she wake up screaming every night?”

“Er, yes”, John looked at the man like a mind reader.

“And it’s worse if she lies down and jiggling helps?” This time, John just nodded.

“Your daughter has the largest adenoids of any child I have ever seen. She has sleep apnoea and every time she lies down and sleeps, they swell and close over. When her blood oxygen levels drops, she automatically wakes screaming. They have to go, and the tonsils, and they have to go now”.

Just three weeks later and Johanna was in hospital recovering from her operation. That night, her parents and her Sherlock watched for hours as Johanna got her first ever full night of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is totally true, based on my youngest daughter although we had no Sherlock Baby Whisperer. Yes, I was offered the parenting course as the solution and no, I haven't yet recovered from the sleep deprivation.


	16. Yours is My Absolute Favourite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 17 and the prompt is make up.
> 
> Back to Johnlock and, for a change, John annoys Sherlock so much they have a row and then, naturally, have to make up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here lies smut and some binge drinking, so please be warned. To be honest, I am surprised it has taken me 17 days to get to it. If that's not your thing that's ok, we can still be friends and there will be something new tomorrow.

Sherlock shooed John away with a single imperious flick of his wrist,

“Of course I don’t mind, go, go. I’ll be fine.”

John wasn’t convinced but his plans with Greg and Mike to go for a few pints had been made weeks ago when Greg had been at a bit of a low ebb. It was generally admitted that John didn’t ‘come out to play’ all that often anymore and a twinge of guilt mixed with the simple desire to have a few beers had won him over. That had all been fine when he had expected Sherlock to be having a quiet night at home, waiting for him, but now things had changed. Having spent most of his day on the sofa, thinking, Sherlock had come up with new idea to advance their latest case and wanted to head out to do some, quite literal, digging.

John was never a fan of Sherlock going off without him as back up, given his consultant detective’s unerring ability to get himself into trouble, but he was a grown man and John _had_ promised.

They headed out into the rainy night together, chatting amiably as they strode along Baker Street, John leaned over and gave Sherlock a quick peck as they went their separate ways.

Forty five minutes later, tucked up in the Queen’s Head and three pints in, John’s phone pinged.

**Still looking for the arm. Getting close. SH**

John was relieved to know Sherlock was okay and surprised that his partner had been aware enough to know he would be worried. He texted back:

**That’s good. Don’t get too wet**

He pocketed the phone just as Lestrade bought theri fourth pint. Things were getting a bit raucous in the pub and the arrival of a hen party only lightened the mood and noise levels further. None of the men had seen each other socially in a while and had some catching up to do. Mike filled them in on his adventures in new parenthood, the joys of new teeth and the effect they had on nappies. Greg detailed the further destruction of his marriage, having been to court and the divorce now finalised. He lamented his single status and bought another round.

Later, John would identify that this was the point when things started to go wrong. Apparently there had been another text message but he had not heard it. Two more rounds later, the conversation in the pub began to reach new alcohol filled depths. Lestrade, ever the detective, was grilling John:

“So what’s it really like mate? You know, with another bloke?”

John grinned vaguely at Greg “S’great.”

Lestrade was not content with this, he needed details:

“Yeah, but, don’t you? I mean, you’re a bloke.” John nodded vigorously in approval of Greg’s deduction, ”and _he’s_ a bloke, do you ever, d’ya know, compare?”

John screwed up his face in concentration, trying his best to understand but not succeeding. He shook his head at Greg “C’mpare?”

“Yeah, you know, who’s got the _biggest one_?” Greg was eyeing him, hands gesticulating wildly. John raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked at Mike who was nodding solemnly, doing his best not to fall off his stool.

John considered the question for a moment, beamed and announced loudly so he could be heard over the heaving crowd:

“Tha’s easy! Sh’lock Holmes has the biggest, most beautiful dick I have ever seen. Isss not long and thin like the rest of him,” John shook his head vehemently, very serious. “No, isss long a’right but its also ver, ver thick, s’wide, do you see?”

Unfortunately for John, it was just at that moment that the hen party decided to leave, significantly reducing the noise level in the pub and also crossing paths with Sherlock Holmes, who was, by now standing behind Greg Lestrade, staring open-mouthed at John Watson.

“Ah, there’s my beau’ful boy! S’Sh’lock!” John was delighted. Sherlock, on the other hand, turned on his heel and left.

Two hours later John was making his way up the 17 stairs to the flat. He, Greg and Mike had had a great night ending with a chorus of “You know I love you, right?”, although Greg’s attempts had been interrupted by an attack of the hiccups. John was at one with the world and very keen to share his bonhomie with his beautiful boy.

However, Sherlock met him at the top of the stairs and fended him off, insisting he sleep alone in his own room. John did his best to persuade him but in the end his sleepiness got the better of him and he capitulated, falling sleep lying on his side trying to pull off his remaining sock.

The next morning, John’s head was fixed to the pillow. He blinked hard as the light filtered in through the curtains and he groaned as he tried to move. A wave of nausea hit him, rapidly followed by The Horrors – he wasn’t sure what he had done, but he knew it wasn’t good. It had been years since John Watson had been this hungover and he was regretting the last three pints and not drinking any water when he got home. He carefully felt his way down the stairs to the bathroom. It was only once he was safely enthroned that he wondered why he had been sleeping upstairs.

He headed out for some healing tea and toast. It was only as he waited for the kettle to boil that he spotted Sherlock sat in John’s chair.

“Mornin’”

The only response was grunt.

“I over did it a bit last night. Sorry.”

Still no response. He made two cups of tea and handed one to Sherlock as he moved to sit in the empty chair,

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

John was far too hungover to be able to pursue this much further, although it was obvious even to him that there was something very wrong with the incommunicative Sherlock. He closed his eyes, wondering if he would be better off going back to bed. He was surprised when Sherlock spoke:

“Last night, in the pub. You… humiliated me.”

John’s eyes flew open. He had only the vaguest memory of Sherlock being in the pub, surely he hadn’t stayed very long. What had he done? He searched his memory until:

“You don’t even remember,” the words dripped like acid from Sherlock’s tongue “You don’t remember what you said.”

John shook his head, wondering what on earth he could have said to deserve this coldness.

“You said, in front of Lestrade and Stamford, not to mention a pub packed full of people, that I had a beautiful and big dick!”

John began to laugh “That I did, and what’s more, it’s true.” He grinned at Sherlock, but it began to fade when he looked at his lover’s very angry face.

“How dare you! How dare you pass comment on such a personal and private matter in public?”

John was aghast,

“It’s not that serious, Sherlock, don’t over…”

“Over react, over react! How would you like it if I walked in to a, a crime scene and started talking about your penis?”  
  
“That’s different, that’s our place of work, this was just the pub and it was a compliment. Most blokes would love to have someone say something like that about them.” John’s head was throbbing with the effort of the discussion.

“It was not just the pub, it was our work colleague, Lestrade and I,” Sherlock was shouting now, “am not _most blokes_!” John watched in amazement as Sherlock stood and pranced back to his own room, slamming the door behind him.

John sat in the chair drinking his tea for a few minutes trying to process what had just happened. This was a fairly unusual turn of events, usually it was John being irate and Sherlock doing the apologising. Starting to feel a bit more human, he managed to eat some toast, drink some more tea and take a couple of paracetamol tablets.

When Sherlock still hadn’t emerged from his room, John decided to have a shower. As the warm water washed away the toxins from the night before, John started to consider what Sherlock had said. For a man as private as his lover usually was, especially about such things as relationships and sex, John could concede that maybe he had been out of order, although it had been unintentional.

When he emerged from the shower, Sherlock was still in his bedroom. John knocked on the door:

“What?”

“Can I come in? I want to apologise.”

Sherlock opened the door and left it ajar, throwing himself back on the bed.

“Sherlock, what I said was wrong. It was unprofessional, an invasion of your privacy and I am truly sorry. In my defence, I was very, very drunk at the time, which now I come to think of it is also not so great and so I apologise for that too.”

Sherlock glanced up at him, still glowering “It was what you said. There was no need for sarcasm. I am already – aware that I am, how will I put this, somewhat lacking in that department.”

John gaped. He tried to pull a sentence together in his head but nothing happened, so he just stood and stared at Sherlock in horror. He thought I was being sarcastic, finally filtered through to his conscious mind, he doesn’t think it’s true. Then an idea popped into his head. Oh, Sherlock Holmes was not the only genius in this flat.

“Sherlock, love” he entreated the still scowling detective “Can we make up? Please? I need to, well, make it up to you.”

“How?”

“Well. I think you may have got the wrong end of the stick, so to speak. I wasn’t being sarcastic when I said I love your penis. Far from it, when have I ever given you the impression that it is anything but perfect?”

Sherlock breathed out a long, deep sigh “Not you”, he admitted talking to his own toes “but, others.”

“Victor,” they both said in unison. It was John’s turn to sigh. One day, he thought, just one day I am going to get my hands on that nasty, abusive little rat and, God help me, I’m going to kill him.

“He was jealous, Sherlock. Just flat out jealous.” John sat next to Sherlock on the bed and shimmied in close, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and kissing him gently on the temple. “I’ve seen loads of cocks. No, not like _that_ ,” he responded to Sherlock’s arched eyebrows and pout, “Well a couple like _that_ , but I was in the army and I played rugby, there were dicks flying everywhere. _And_ I’m a doctor. I must have seen hundreds over the years.”

“Your point, John?”

“Yours is my absolute favourite. The nicest, prettiest, most talented and,” he took a deep breath “largest I have ever seen.” he gave said penis an admiring pat, only to find it quite hard, clearly enjoying being the centre of attention and praise.

John stroked Sherlock through his pyjamas, watching the other man’s face closely. When he clearly wasn’t going to be told to stop, he began nuzzling behind Sherlock’s ear and slowly eased his way down the lean body, kissing, licking and stroking.

“In fact, I think your beautiful prick should be immortalised in art. It should be photographed, painted and have poetry written about it, Oh,” he was struck with an idea “It should have statues made of it”.

By now, John was nuzzling at the aforementioned penis. Sherlock’s annoyance had been replaced with a languid, relaxed look. However, he sat up and glared at John’s last comment,

“Statues? John, you are being ridiculous.”

“Yes. Statues. Like the ones Michelangelo made,” and with that he pulled down Sherlock’s pyjamas and began to use his teeth to delicately stroke the very top of Sherlock’s now rock hard cock. He was rewarded with a deep growl and long drawn out groan of delight. He brought his hand down to stroke Sherlock’s balls before giving in to his own greatest delight and buried hs face in them, kissing, nibbling and licking. God, how loved that musky scent. Sherlock moaned an unintelligible unnnggg.

Dipping his tongue down to press Sherlock’s perineum, John gently began to stroke his fingertips up and down the length of Sherlock’s cock.  Then took the substantial girth entirely in his mouth, sucking and licking at the cleft at the top.

Sherlock bucked into John’s mouth, one hand gripping at the headboard, the other clutching at the folds of his dressing gown. John removed his mouth for a moment, but maintained his rhythm with his left hand.

“Sherlock, you have the most extraordinary dick. It brings me the most wonderful pleasure, the best I have ever known. Like the rest of you, it is pure genius and I will never, ever have you suggest otherwise.” Sherlock thrust up into his hand at the praise and John returned his mouth to lick and suck until with a shout, Sherlock came.

With a grin, John crawled back up to Sherlock’s mouth and kissed him.

“I really am sorry”.

“Apology accepted.”

“Good.”

“John?”

“Mmm?”

“About that statue. We could get one of those plaster of paris kits and make our own.”

“Git”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an interview I have seen with the cast and an interviewer (no of course I can't find the link). There is a brief discussion of fanfiction and Stephen Moffat comments to Benedict that:  
>  "You are very, happy. You are both very, very, happy"   
> To which Benedict asks "Am I well-endowed?"   
> "To be honest, you don't see enough daylight to know"  
> At this point, Benedict loses it and gets the giggles, only for Moffat to insist  
> "Pull yourself together Benedict"
> 
> So, this story is for Benedict, who wished to be well-endowed.


	17. Phone Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 17, Holding Hands

“Hello, love”

“Hello..No, Molly, don’t put it there. Sorry, John what were you saying?”

“Oh, err, are you going to be home for..”

“Molly, I insist that you take that away from me! I am on the phone to John.”

“..for dinner? Are you alright Sherlock?”

“Yes, I’m quite …… Ohhh Molly, that is _beautiful._ You really are too good to me.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes John? Ah, apologies, no, I am not sure what time I shall be home.”

“Right. No dinner then but..”

“Two! You have two of them? Good grief, you really are sublime – John, I have to go.”

“Sherlock! What the bloody hell is going on?”

“Oh, do calm down, John. I shall be home later and shall treat you to a late supper if it bothers you that much – Oh, yes Molly, I’m coming. Do stop waving them at me, I’m trying to talk to my husband!”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I demand an explanation right now. What _precisely_ is Molly Hooper waving at you?”

“Hands. John. She has been holding hands for me.”

“Holding _hands_ for you?”

“Yes, the most delightful necrotic hands, John. Two of them, a matching pair! She really is the most extraordinary friend. John. John! John?”


	18. Compulsion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompts Date Night and Pining. Yes the two can go together.

“That’s me then I’m off out.”

“Out?”

“Yeah. I have told you twice. Since I came home from work. An hour ago. I have a date.”

“Ah yes, the date. Dull, I must have deleted it.”

“Right. Thanks. Anyway, see you later.”

Sherlock turns and picks up his violin and starts to play, feigning disinterest and not wanting to see John leave, all dressed up in his new suit. As soon as John has gone, Sherlock watches him from the window then droops down onto the sofa, head in hands. After a moment he ruffles his curls in frustration and stands back up and searches the flat for a distraction, anything to take the edge off this, this, he searches for the right word before settling on yearning, yes, pointless, self-inflicted yearning.

He mopes from room to room, unable to find anything remotely interesting and considers calling Lestrade before realising that, at 8.30 on a Friday evening, Lestrade will have called it a day and gone home. Resolve fading, he wilts back onto the sofa and back into the John-filled rooms of his Mind Palace.

The restaurant is busy and their table is close to the kitchen door but not too bad. The lighting is subtle and John’s date, Laura, is looking wonderful in her low cut claret dress. John leans over to refill her wine glass, giving her his best smile.

“So then, of course, we had to chase him because what would have been the point of all of Sherlock’s brilliant deductions if we let him get away? So we legged it over the roofs and just about caught up with him. God, it was exhausting! Worth it though.”

“Mmmm must have been. Anyway, tell me about your time in the Army. You did say you had been a soldier?”

“Yes. Yes for 10 years. Army doctor actually, but I saw plenty of action too. Two tours in Afghanistan. I was actually just returned when I met Sherlock. That’s a good story, I must tell you about the first time I met him, he was able to tell everything about me from just looking at my phone….”  


By ten o’clock, Sherlock has used up all his reserves of will power. He has picked up his phone four different times to make up some emergency and text John to come home. If it hadn’t been for the huge row the last time Sherlock had interrupted one of John’s dates, he would have done it half an hour ago. God, this was worse than giving up smoking. At least they had patches for that. Sherlock paused to consider what a patch to treat his craving for John would be comprised of; a tea steeped woollen patch in a check pattern but a core of meshed steel. The idea entertained him for an entire microsecond before the compulsion to see John returned.

Why was he doing this to himself anyway? John was clearly not interested in him and never would be. Sherlock was going to have to find a way to pack up all these useless and distracting feelings and get on with things. Just be grateful you have him as your friend, he told himself, yet again.

Things with Laura were going well, John thought. She had laughed at all his stories, even the one about the thumbs in the fridge and the food had been delicious, particularly the dim sum which Sherlock would have loved. He considered ordering a portion to bring home with him. John glanced at his watch, Laura had been in the bathroom a while now, he hoped she was ok. John poured himself another glass of wine and perused the dessert menu.

Sherlock had the phone in his hand when it beeped. It was now 10.30 and his resolve had finally crumbled and a plan devised to get John away from this insipid woman. Really, John would be grateful in the long run when he realised what Sherlock had saved him from.

**She did a disappearing act on me**

Who?

**My date. Went to the loo and never came back. I waited for half an hour**

Come home.

**Then she sent me a text to say she had left**

Where are you? I’ll come and get you.

**I’m already in a cab**

John looked at his phone and re-read the text from Laura once more

_John, I really like you but I won’t play second fiddle to anyone. I don’t know what is going on with you and Sherlock, but it’s quite obvious you’re in love with him. Thank you for dinner. Good bye._

John sighed. Of course he was in love with Sherlock Holmes, and it seemed the whole world could see it, except Sherlock.


	19. You Know What Happened to the Other One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For prompt 19, Bird watching.

Having been alone so much, the noise, crowds and smells were almost utterly overwhelming. Sherlock pushed through the teeming souk, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, avoiding the entreaties of the stall holders. His information was bringing him deep into the centre of the souk, into the oldest part of the ancient city of Sousse. He edged carefully past the crowded stalls selling tourists their Tunisian slippers, the multi-coloured silk scarves draping down from the top of the narrow alleyway nearly touching the mountains of lemon and rose flavoured Turkish delight. Around another corner he was barraged by the scents from the tea-seller’s stall, forty five different varieties all carefully piled up. Thankfully, his disguise meant no-one actually got close enough to touch him.

Sherlock concentrated on counting his steps. His directions had been very specific, necessary in this labyrinth of medieval pathways overflowing with people, all seemingly shouting at each other. Ten more steps, turn left, thirty steps, turn right, one hundred and eleven steps, face left and stop.

The tiny tobacconist stall was empty except for one customer and the man behind the counter, slightly stooped, dark-haired and dressed in a crisp white tunic. They were sharing the dark coffee that was the local hospitable custom. Sherlock, loved it, it was strong, drunk without milk and syrupy sweet. 

He sidled in, keeping his back to the counter and slowly worked his way around the tiny shop. The radio blared in the corner and Sherlock strained to hear the conversation being held. After a few minutes of Sherlock’s browsing, the shopkeeper thanked his customer and wished him goodbye.

Sherlock turned and met the shopkeeper’s eyes. The man straightened up, blinked his blue eyes twice in rapid succession and, in English, whispered:

“I thought you were dead.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly, “Well, you would know all about that.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, each deducing the other, although Sherlock already knew his head to toe black burkah would not yield up too many clues. He removed the niqab covering all but his eyes and grinned at the brother he had not seen in seven years.

Both, knowing they were inevitably being watched, maintained their cover. Sherlock approached the counter and made a small purchase of tobacco. In giving him his change, Sherrinford slipped him a note on a cigarette paper, an address, and in the local Darija dialect wished Sherlock goodbye.

That evening Sherlock, once more dressed as a man, made his way carefully to the address he had been given. He meandered throughout the city, going far in one direction only to circle around to another suburb. Eventually he reached his destination and pushed the back door open, not making his presence known. He knew that this was a very dangerous meeting, for both of them, but when his search for the outer extremities of Moriarty’s web had led him to Sousse, he had been compelled to find his brother.

Sherlock made his way carefully into the house. There was no sign of Sherrinford. Suddenly a Tunisian woman appeared in front of him:

“I know who you are and you are welcome in our home. Understand though, if you have brought trouble, I will kill you.” With that, the woman nodded to the flight of stairs behind her and pointed up.

Carefully keeping his back to the wall, Sherlock made his way up the curving stairs carved into the pale golden stone of the house. They opened out into a walled courtyard, currently being used as a laundry drying space. Sherrinford waited for him here and welcomed him with a single, tight hug. Standing straight he was even taller than Sherlock, his handsome warm face lit up with a broad smile.

“I thought.. they told me you were dead. Committed suicide. I never believed it. How did you find me? God, I’m glad you found me, little brother. It’s so great to see you, I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock was a little taken aback by the openness of his older brother. His exile had changed him. He was still a Holmes though and saw Sherlock’s surprise and beamed again.

“I have a new life now. I have changed. I met someone who changed me, showed me that love is an advantage.”

“The woman downstairs? Is she your wife?”

“Mariem? Yes, but there is someone else. Sherlock, meet your nephew.”

Sherrinford turned and hiding behind the clothes airers was a bassinet. In it was a small baby.

“His name is Jamel William Rashid.”

Sherlock nodded acknowledgement of the name and stooped to admire the boy, estimating he was four and a half months old with his mother’s dark skin but his father’s bright blue eyes. He stroked the child’s cheek gently. He had never imagined there would be another Holmes.

“I can’t stay long. It’s not safe for either of us.”

“This roof is the safest place for us. We’ll sit up, have coffee.”

Sherrinford brought his son down to Mariem. Sherlock sat on the blankets spread on the flat roof surveying the view over the quiet residential neighbourhood. The day’s latent heat seeped up into his bones from the roof and for the first time in months he relaxed. He had kept the loss of Sherrinford close to his heart, protecting the lives of both his older brothers. Mycroft, he thought. Mycroft did this, sent him away.

Sherrinford returned with coffee, olives, baklava and Turkish delight, multi coloured and drenched in icing sugar. As they settled down, the sun began to set, the colours shifting from blue to yellow and pink. The brothers sat in silence for a moment watching the swifts swooping and curling, rising on the warm air before diving again in the cooler currents.

“How is he?”

“His usual interfering, arrogant self.”

“Does he know you are ok?”  
  
“Yes, he helped me get out of the country.”

Sherrinford snorted, “He’s good at that.” Sherlock stared at him for a moment, unsure, before matching his brother’s grin.

“And you, Sherlock, are you alright?”

“I will be, when this job is done.”

“Do you have someone at home?”

Sherlock thought of John, “Maybe. Possibly. There is someone but he doesn’t …. He thinks I’m dead.”

Sherrinford considered this, “It clears the mind, being dead. Makes you realise what’s important. In all those days I was doing Mycroft’s bidding, having adventures, I never thought I would want this, family, a settled life. Never give up on him.”

They sipped the coffee and watched the sun descend, swapping stories and reliving childhood memories. Sherlock told him all about his cases, John, Moriarty and his network and Sherrinford told the tale of how he met his wife and persuaded her to marry him.

It was pitch black when Sherlock stood to leave. He had already taken a great risk staying here so long. Sherrinford swamped Sherlock once more in an enormous hug. Neither man wanted to let go. Downstairs he kissed his sleeping nephew, memorising his face. Neither one of them mentioned meeting again or said goodbye and Sherrinford watched his baby brother’s back until he melted into the black of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a busy week and I am a bit behind. Please prepare yourself for an oncoming fluff storm.


	20. Rainy Days

The rainy days were the worst for John, and there was no shortage of them in London. The pain began when the low pressure system moved in from the west and the dull ache in his shoulder would start before the rain actually fell. Most days John’s injury gave him very little trouble, a tightness when turning suddenly or an occasional twinge if he pulled it past its limits. Rain, however, resulted in a dull persistent ache that started in the shoulder and moved down to the elbow, spreading down his shoulder blade. When the rain persisted for days at a time, the ache would intensify and reach down past John’s wrist and into his hand.

Sherlock’s pain came from his lower back, the result of an untreated cracked vertebrae sustained from his beating in Serbia and aggravated by John’s punch on his return. He did everything he could to hide the discomfort it caused and, as a result, only John knew of its existence.

Sherlock was acutely aware of John’s pain. When he had returned home after Mary’s death, Sherlock would watch him carefully, silently bringing John a glass of water and paracetamol. If that didn’t help, he offered an efficient shoulder massage that usually helped relieve the tension and swelling in the shoulder. Occasionally, he would suggest that John take a codeine tablet, kept locked in John’s medical box.

John, in turn, would assess Sherlock’s pain by his own observations and bullying him into a verbal acknowledgement of its existence. A hot water bottle under the small of the back on the sofa or a warm bath were the usual prescriptions. Maybe once every six months, John would unlock the bag and give Sherlock a codeine tablet of his own.

This particular day on February was cold and the rain had been falling for five days straight, that drizzly kind of rain that seeps grey into everything, not the dramatic, energising downpour kind. They had spent the previous day with the cold rain dripping down their necks as they rooted through a skip in Kensington in search of a missing shoe for their latest case and today John was stiff, sore, grumpy and feeling old.

Sherlock, stretched out on the sofa, observed him out of the corner of his eye. In the six months since John had come home, this was the stillest and quietest John had been, sitting now beside the fire staring ahead into space. Sherlock observed the hunched up left shoulder and the clenching and unclenching of John’s left hand. Silently, Sherlock stood and boiled the kettle, rooted around in the cupboards and offered John two paracetamol from his open palm. John grunted his thanks and took the tablets. A moment later, Sherlock handed John tea and warmed his hand around his own mug.

Moving to the bathroom, he began to run John a bath and went back to the front room to instruct John to go and get in. John smiled his thanks and obediently did as he was told.

Five minutes later, Sherlock was sat drinking his tea and listening to the small splashes and ripples of the bath water. Without really thinking about it, he left his mug on the table, went to the bathroom and opened the door, just enough to stick his head around.

“Is that helping? Any better?”

John shook his head. Sherlock could see there were tears on John’s cheeks. He was unsure if this was down to the physical pain but suspected it may be more. Taking a deep breath, he offered:

“Do you think a massage might help?”

John paused. He looked directly at Sherlock and nodded.

 

Removing his dressing gown to free up his arms and kneeling on a towel at the end of the bath, Sherlock began to systematically massage John’s shoulders, his neck, down the shoulder blades and his biceps, taking great care to keep his movements firm and quick.

John relaxed into his touch, not feeling the need to say a word, but leaned back and closed his eyes. After a few minutes, Sherlock worked the muscles of the left elbow, forearm and finally, the hand. He listened to John’s breathing becoming shallow and slow. Coming to an end, Sherlock left a calming hand on John’s damaged shoulder just for a moment, then started to rise to his feet, his own back and knees complaining at the time spent in this position.

His rise was halted by John’s right hand coming to rest on top of Sherlock’s and holding it there. Sherlock, nervous and hesitant, leaned slowly down and placed the lightest of kisses imaginable on the top of John’s head. John turned his head, pulled Sherlock’s hand a little further down, tuned it over and gently, kissed the palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


	21. The Luminosity of Quasars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt Stargazing
> 
> This follows on immediately from the events of Chapter 20, which you should read first.

For a long moment Sherlock paused, not sure what was expected of him.  He reached for a flannel, gently moved John forward and began to wash his back, then tentatively washed his chest, watching the rivulets of water trickle between John’s pectorals. Transfixed, he watched the water follow its inevitable course down, down until it met the rest of the bath water.

John leaned back, relaxing into the touch. The water was cooling now and he had reached a decision. It was time. Time to look past his own bad decisions and see what was right in front of him now. Time to finally forgive Sherlock for abandoning him. Time to accept that he was not the man he had spent years pretending to be just to keep others happy. Time to let someone help him carry his grief for his daughter.

John stood up in the bath, water cascading everywhere. The noise shocked him after the unhurried silence. Sherlock started at the sudden movement, the open exhibition John was making of himself, showing Sherlock more than ever before. In that split second, Sherlock understood it was time. Time to stop being a coward, time to stop blaming himself for the death of John’s baby. Time to stop apologising for leaving John. Time to stop hiding, from himself, from John. Time to lay out his raw, naked heart to John and find out if it will be caressed and protected or thrown down and marched over.

John turned to face Sherlock who stepped towards him, offering a towel. Ignoring him, John lifted his hand, stroked Sherlock’s face and locked eyes with the tall, lean man and kissed him, just once, a chaste, soft lingering press of lips.

John pulled back and spoke for the first time in what felt like hours:

“I had to do that Sherlock. If I never do it again, I can live my life knowing that just once, I had the courage to take my heart’s desire.”

Just for a moment, a fraction of a second, a fill of ventricles before they could pump out again, Sherlock wondered if he was capable of this, of being what someone else needed. What he so badly wanted to be. Then the thinking finally stopped and he closed the gap between then, pressed his fully clothed body hard against John’s wet and naked one, and kissed him, a swirl and slide of warm tongues and breath, arms wrapped around one another, clinging and pulling each other closer as lips and tongues devoured the other.

It was John that let go first, breathing hard and pulling back so he could look into Sherlock’s heavy-lidded eyes.

“I want every part of you. If this is not what you want, Sherlock, you need to say so, right now, because I don’t think I can stop again.”

“You can have every part of me... I want to give you everything. You already _have_ everything.”

John growled, low and pained. He hurled himself at Sherlock, pushing him hard up against the bathroom door leading into Sherlock’s bedroom. His kiss this time was fierce, demanding and he brought both hands up to cup Sherlock’s face, pull him as close as he could. Sherlock’s hands roamed John’s back, gripping his arse and pulling him closer.

“Bring me to your bed,” John huffed into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock said nothing but opened the door that led into his room. For a moment he was brought up short by the bright light pouring in the window. It had finally stopped raining and the sun was making a valiant effort to appear through the dark clouds. He turned and looked at John, shy despite being the one dressed. In the broad daylight he saw the heat and intent in John’s eyes.

“Let’s get those off you,” John rumbled, pulling at the t shirt Sherlock was wearing, “I need to see you, want you laid out for me.”

Sherlock’s hands hovered at his pyjama waistbands, awash with uncertainty, heart pounding. He suddenly wanted to run away. He avoided John’s ravenous gaze, looked at his feet and, not for the first time in his life, wondered what was wrong with him.

Then something wonderful happened. John saw him. Really saw him. Like he had from the moment they had met. Seen past the bravado and showmanship to the lonely, insecure man with a brilliant brain that just wanted to help people.

John very gently placed his hand under Sherlock’s chin and raised his eyes to meet his own. This time, there was only gentle affection and understanding in those dark blue eyes.

“I didn’t know. I had my suspicions, but I didn’t know. Is this your first time? Please Sherlock, tell me the truth?”

He considered lying. Just for a moment he wanted to front it out as always.

Instead he nodded.

John let out a long, deep sigh and smiled. Smiled at the opportunity he had to show this amazing man exactly how he felt about him. Smiled at the trust shown in him. Smiled at the honesty. This was the first time John had smiled in a long time. He stroked Sherlock’s beautiful face:

“Then we do exactly what you want to do and no more, but there is something you need to know. I say it without expectation, for no reason other than I need to say it out loud, even if it is only ever once. I love you, Sherlock. I have been in love with you for years. I want to make love to you.”

So that is exactly what he did. With gentle caresses, long, slow kisses, encouraging words and exquisite moans, John showed Sherlock exactly how he felt. When, later that evening, they lay together, sated and their sweat cooling, Sherlock laid his head on John’s chest and looked out of the window at the now perfectly clear night sky. He gazed at the stars, thought about the magnitude of the universe and, with the luminosity of a quasar, saw his place in it.

“I love you too, John.”


	22. Weaning Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, Sickness.
> 
> This story features John and Sherlock's daughter Emelia who originates in Chapters 4 and 6 of my work [Blood Rising](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7537561/chapters/17229505) .Please be aware that work is E rated. She is not John's daughter with Mary but John and Sherlock's child. I am currently working on a story about how she came to be in 221b.

The first two times his mobile rang, John missed it. In fairness, he was using a hand-held blender at the time, pureeing organic porridge made with baby formula. Today was a big day in the Holmes-Watson household as Emilia was now six months old and today was her first attempt at solid food.

Naturally, Sherlock had done extensive research on the subject, created a spreadsheet for Emelia and had decided to use himself as a comparative test subject. John had remained resolutely silent on this development. If it meant that Sherlock ate only a single teaspoon of pureed parsnip, well that was more than he had ever done in the previous forty years of his existence. John was intrigued as to whether Sherlock’s dislike of certain foods was based on fact or that the man had simply decided he didn’t like them. He would never admit it out loud, but Sherlock was curious about the same thing.

After much consideration, it was agreed that Sunday would be the best time to try weaning. There would be no time pressure and the research Sherlock had done indicated that there may be some clearing up required. The previous day, the three had gone on a shopping spree. A new high chair was invested in, a smart wooden one that would later covert into a toddler chair and table, new bibs, spoons that changed colour when they were too hot for a baby, ice cube trays, lidded plastic containers, a new blender and lots and lots of baby wipes. They then went to the greengrocers and bought organic pears, apples, avocados, potatoes, carrots and parsnips. John’s hand had hovered over the apricots only to feel Sherlock’s eyes boring in to him.

“No John. Not apricots. Never apricots.”

Later that evening, John had cleaned out a cupboard and labelled all the new containers and the food processor with Emilia’s name. He was now the only one in their little family not to have their own special cupboard. He considered putting a label on the tea bags just so as not to feel left out.

So, when the phone rang at 8.15 on a Sunday morning, John Watson was, in fact, up to his arm pits in saucepans containing different fruits simmering down, the organic porridge cooking in the microwave, ice cube trays sterilizing and the sounds of their daughter laughing hysterically. Flinging a tea towel over his shoulder, he sneaked a head out of the kitchen to see why she was laughing so hard. Sherlock was sat in his chair and lifting their daughter up onto his head, rubbing her belly on his head just long enough for her to not get a full grip on his hair and then dropping her back into his lap only to pull a scowling face and rumble:

“Goodness Emelia, what on earth could be so funny?” before repeating the game again.

John grinned at them, knowing both could keep this game going for a while and grateful that Sherlock was keeping the hungry Emilia distracted as her first meal of porridge was cooling.

So it was only when the phone rang then that John spotted the previous two missed calls from Alison, the manager of the crèche that they occasionally used. He realised the calls had been made one immediately after the other. He frowned as he answered, already on edge that she was calling so early and on a Sunday.

“Dr. Watson, I am going to get straight to the point as I have a lot of people to contact. I am afraid I have some serious news.”

“Go on.”

“Yesterday, while Emelia was here, one of the other children fell ill. We were very concerned and took the child to their G.P. immediately. I am sorry to have to tell you, that child has now been confirmed as having bacterial meningitis. I am sure you understand the seriousness of this situation.”

John sat down hard on a kitchen chair, his heart clenching. He certainly did understand.

“You are initiating the notification protocol?”

“Indeed. I understand you may already know this but I am obliged to tell you anyway, under the instructions of the Centre for Disease Control. You need to put Emelia on high dose antibiotics immediately. As you collected her here, you also need to take a course.”

“Then we just sit back and wait?”

“So I am told.”

Scared to ask, “the other child. How are they doing?”

The line went quiet. “He’s fighting for his life, John,” Alison’s voice cracked. She took a deep breath, “I have to go. I have others to call. Get the antibiotics. Please stay in touch.”

John hung up. He wiped his face. He had seen bacterial meningitis take children in a matter of hours. He had also met survivors, some having had their lives saved by the emergency amputation of feet or arms. On auto pilot, he turned off the heat under all the pans and walked slowly over to Sherlock and the still laughing Emelia and put his arms out to take his daughter. He held her close and explained to Sherlock what was going on.

“We will know within 48 hours whether she has been infected. Until then, we give her the high dose antibiotics and hope. There is nothing else we can do Sherlock.” John wasn’t in the mood for all of Sherlock’s inevitable questions just at that moment.

The two men stared at each other and at their beautiful daughter. John was trying very hard not to go through all the possible effects of meningitis. He also could not put Emelia down.

Sherlock was the only one who had not been directly exposed to the bacteria. He went in search of a Sunday opening Chemist with the prescriptions John had written and returned within less than an hour. Emelia’s were in liquid form, John’s were tablets the size of horse pills.

Then all they could do was wait. Later, John would remember it as the longest forty eight hours of his life. He held Emelia on his lap all day until Sherlock gently prised her away so he could go to the bathroom. The three of them snuggled up on the sofa under a blanket, the men trying to distract themselves with silly Sunday movies. Every half an hour, John would check Emelia for the tell-tale sign of the distinctive rash, lethargy or an increase in temperature. In turn, Sherlock would check John for any signs of the rash. John felt fine but monitored his own temperature just in case.

Sherlock changed Emelia’s nappy that evening as John made tea and nearly fainted when he removed it. He called for John, hand hovering over Emelia’s tummy in case she moved. Her nappy was bright red. John, thinking he had found a rash, was already yelling back instructions when he reached the changing unit by the window, his knees weak with relief.

“It’s only the antibiotics, love. They make the urine red. Mine is the same. I’m so sorry, I should have warned you.”

That night, Emelia slept between her fathers, both sleeping only fitfully. John watched his peaceful child sleeping, her face illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. His panic was beginning to subside a little as time passed without any symptoms and his thoughts went to the family of the infected child. He hoped the child was recovering.

The next morning, they were awoken by Mrs. Hudson. A Public Health Nurse was calling to every family who had used the crèche.

The older lady was very reassuring as she stripped and checked every inch of the bawling Emelia, annoyed at being unceremoniously naked. Just as John had, she checked for a rash, change in temperature and any reduction in neck movement. Emelia passed all tests with flying colours. John and Sherlock gripped hands throughout the examination. John too was quizzed about any symptoms.

“Confirming your own findings, Dr. Watson, you are both fine. It is now thirty six hours since she was exposed to the bacteria so highly unlikely she is infected. However, you both must finish your antibiotics. Any changes, give me a call.”

“How is the other child? We don’t even know if it was a boy of a girl?”

“Still alive. The G.P. gave him an intravenous dose of antibiotics on arrival and called an air ambulance. Saved his life. The child’s heart stopped on route but was revived. He is not out of danger yet and only time will tell what damage has been done but at least he has pulled through.”

Years later, John and Sherlock would smile at their stroppy teenager, insisting she could not _possibly_ leave the house in these rags and yelling about having nothing to wear and wrap their arms around her resisting frame and remember those awful forty eight hours of waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based on my own daughter's contact with meningitis not once, but twice aged 6 months and 5 years. I will be forever grateful for our close escape. In both instances, the children infected not only survived but are doing well - I see them regularly. If you do not know the symptoms of this disease, please have a look [here](http://www.meningitis.org/symptoms?gclid=Cj0KEQjw1ee_BRD3hK6x993YzeoBEiQA5RH_BKfDypIPjTLuwFF2rmvLELeZkeDtFQaOA97UkoTYa8EaAvhO8P8HAQ) as it can affect both adults and children and fast medical intervention is key.


	23. Belgrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt Missing Home, an attempt at first person. It's hard!

Sherlock Holmes, sat outside a small café in Belgrade, Serbia

Oh that coffee is good! Should I eat? When did I last eat? There was the bread at breakfast, was that today? No, that was yesterday. They have pastries on the menu, I’ll have a pastry. Or maybe two. Could be a while before I eat next.

Why is that woman watching me? Those dogs of hers need muzzling. Yes, this pastry was good idea.

The waiter is studying law. That man in the coat, his wife is cheating on him, Green hat man is late for work but hates his job so much he is going to stop and…..yes, there we go, order a coffee. God, they are all so boring. How much longer? Depends on Slavzokzy and his contacts.

I should book a room somewhere new for two more days, maybe three? Somewhere cleaner. Now she has company. Husband? No, Lover? No. Brother? No. Oh, of course, cousin. You’re slowing down Holmes. That pastry was okay, not as good as the ones from that bakery in Watling Street that John always went to. I wonder how John is? I must get an update from Mycroft.

Coffee’s gone cold, I’ll get another then move on, need to visit the library, meet Babic at two. Maybe time to make a move now, it’s getting busy, too many people around. Getting warm. Wonder what the weather is like in London? Probably raining. I miss London, miss the smell of it. Nowhere smells like home. You’re getting sentimental. 

That man is watching me, there's someone behind me. Military, moving quickly, shit,! Not the dogs. A third. No, don’t do that! Take your hand off….


	24. Miss Emelia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the story of how John and Sherlock became fathers to Emelia, who features in Chapter 22 and my work Blood Rising.

Sue tipped her head sideways and regarded John Watson for a long moment as he concentrated on completing the raft of forms she had brought for him to sign:

“John, have you ever given any thought to being a foster parent. I mean, yourself and Sherlock being foster carers?”

John raised his head slowly, frowning but a smile warming his eyes:

“Me? And Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? He can barely take care of himself let alone a child. Don’t be daft, Sue, you know the life we lead. Anyway, I’m knocking on a bit, aren’t I?”

Sitting back, crossing her arms, Sue sighed gently and repeated her mantra:

“Forty percent of Britons think you can’t foster over the age of 55. In fact, we have successful foster carers well into their 70’s. As long as you’re healthy and fit, age isn’t a barrier. Anyway, never mind, it was just an idea. Have you finished them? I have to head over to the court in fifteen minutes and I need a coffee first.”

John smiled at the social worker, handing over the forms and, not for the first time, thinking he could not do her job.

When he got home to Baker Street that evening, Sherlock was sat leaning over his microscope and surrounded by plates and dishes covering every inch of the kitchen table. Each dish held a dead pigeon in differing states of decay. The smell was rancid and pervasive:

“Jesus Sherlock, at least open a bloody window. How in God’s name am I supposed to eat anything in here with this stench!” Sherlock merely raised his head and looked vacantly at John as if hearing the words smell, window and eat for the very first time. They clearly meant nothing to him.

As John stomped off to get takeaway pizza, he remembered what Sue had said and laughed wryly to himself. Who in their right minds would bring a child into this?

That night John dreamed about her. Now four years old, John regularly imagined and dreamed about what his daughter. His subconscious extrapolated the little amount of information it had about her before Mary disappeared from the hospital with her, aged just three days old. A light covering of blonde hair, blue eyes and his forehead. Occasionally, he thought her glimpsed her, off in the distance in a busy shopping centre, or just disappearing around a corner, holding hands with an unknown adult. Dream John would bend down to his daughter and kiss her cheek, stroke her plump, soft hand and tell her it was going to be fine, Daddy was here now.

He always woke from these dreams mournful and the feeling usually stayed with him at the back of his head for the rest of the day. He would tell Sherlock, of course, who would hold him and do his best to reassure John she was safe and loved, wherever she was.

_____________________

It was nearly six months later that John ran into Sue again. He and Sherlock were leaving Court Room number five, having given evidence in the trial of a man who had steadily poisoned his boss in order to swindle his business from under him while the man was sick. Sherlock has identified both the motive and poison and there had been a short chase through the stalls of Camden Market before John had tackled the man and brought him to the ground. Sue, on the other hand was again leaving the Children’s Court. She was standing in the queue for coffee when John spotted her.

“You look like you’re having a tough day?” he enquired, gently.

“Oh, same as usual. Kids being let down by those that brought them into the world and then spend their lives punishing the kid for existing.” She wiped her face tiredly.”Sorry, John. This one’s worse than usual.”

John bought her coffee for her and listened while she grumped about some of her current case load. Nothing specific of course, but the generalities were enough to leave a pain lodged in the kind heart of John Watson.

That evening he and Sherlock shared a celebratory dinner at the Moonlight Palace, a tiny Chinese hidden in the basement of a block of flats. Sipping his Chinese tea, replete with ribs and satay, John looked at the love of his life and asked a question that had never occurred to him to ask before:

“Sherlock, have you ever wanted to have a child?”

The blue-in-this-soft-light eyes flicked up to his face in surprise and swarmed across John’s face, deducing. John sat back and let him. Sherlock might be better able to tell him how he was feeling about this than he knew himself.

“I have occasionally wondered what it might be like to be a parent.” Unflinchingly he continued, “When you and Mary were expecting, I gave it some thought. Of course, at the time I was single so it was irrelevant and even more so in recent years. You and I are hardly about to have a baby are we?”

“There is more than one way of having a child, Sherlock, “John frowned, “but yeah, I know what you mean. Our lifestyle is hardly conducive to raising a family.” He gave a half laugh.

“And yet…?”

“Yeah, I thought I would be a Dad. I mean, I _am_ a Dad, but you know what I mean. ”

“You have been thinking about this a lot?”

“More and more lately. Oh, don’t mind me love, I’m just getting old”

“No. Don’t do that John, don’t deflect. Tell me what you thought being a Dad would be like? Just for the record, I think you would have been a wonderful father, given the chance.”

“Sherlock. Look, I don’t know how to say this, or even if I mean it, or if it would work, or if they would have us, but Sue said something to me that day at the Court that has stayed with me. She said that some kids just need a few weeks with someone who cares and can look after them to help. She was talking about the difference fostering can make. It just, you know, spoke to me. Stayed with me.” John looked straight at Sherlock now, the passion he felt firing in his eyes. “Is it mad, Sherlock? Am I mad?”

Sherlock sat and thought for a long moment. He had some misgivings and wondered if they were the kind of people anyone would entrust the care of a child to. He looked at John. He would do anything to make that man happy. Never let it be said Sherlock Holmes was one to run away from a challenge. Also, it would provide him with the opportunity to observe the behaviour of children in a very close way. Maybe he could run a few experiments. Ah no, not experiments.

“No. It’s a perfectly logical response to your biological imperative to reproduce, one that takes into consideration the barriers created by our choice of lifestyle. I think we should look into it.”

John gaped “Really? I thought you would, I mean, perhaps you might think, or that… Really, Sherlock? Have you actually thought this through?”

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow at the last question and they both laughed.

__________________________

 

Over the next three months, John began the process of registering them as foster carers. He took a more regular rota at the clinic to guarantee a stable income but still only worked part time. They talked to Mrs. Hudson, who was delighted by the idea, and painted John’s old room in warm, neutral colours and invested in a new bed, curtains and wardrobe.

They were interviewed at length about their health, income, support network and the flat was thoroughly examined for safety hazards. Sherlock proudly showed them his clear labelling system and containers used for his more expansive experiments.

John’s profession as a doctor was of particular interest to the social workers and they were asked at length if they felt they would be able to care for a child with a disability or serious illness. They remained open to both options, although the 17 stairs to the flat were duly noted. Sherlock was quizzed about his history of substance abuse. Far from being considered a risk, once they had proved Sherlock’s abstinence for the last four years, it seemed that an understanding of such matters may, in fact, be to their advantage.

They attended training courses and met other foster carers. John, in particular, found some of the stories they heard rather sobering but rather than put him off, it just reinforced his quiet determination to be amongst those who helped.

It was a social worker called Clare who phoned with their very first placement, a boy of 12 whose father was absent and whose mother had to spend a number of weeks in hospital. Mark was a tall boy, mad for football and playing loud music. He settled in quite quickly and they fell into an easy routine of school runs, dinners at set times and visits to the hospital to visit Mark’s Mum. John was able to reassure the boy that she really would make a full recovery and Sherlock provided a surprising amount of help with homework. Both men were sorry to see him go after six weeks and the flat seemed very quiet for a few days afterwards.

Children would come and go into their lives after that in flurries of a few days here and there followed by a couple of months with no-one. For three months they had a five year old girl named Lucy stay with them every weekend while her Mum and Dad spent time with her brother who was fighting of leukaemia. These weekends were a whirlwind of treats and distractions and when her Mum came to collect her each Sunday evening, she thanked them profusely for all their help.

Then something unexpected happened. From the outset, they had been told that it was very unusual for anyone to be asked to foster a baby. Sometimes they may come with siblings, but on the whole, foster care was for needed for older children. Then one Tuesday, at about three in the afternoon, Sue phoned John:

“Hi. I may need your specialised care for a new-born, John. How would you feel about that?”

“Go on. What type of care is needed?”

“Mother is a heroin addict. She has refused to give up the child for adoption but has agreed to foster care. The baby will most likely be born addicted, John and may have other problems.”

“HIV?”  


“No, the mother tested negative, but as you know, the physical effects of substance abuse can be wide ranging.”

“So the baby will need medical care?”

“Indeed. It will be kept in a Neonatal Unit with a specialist Midwife for the first three weeks. These babies are usually born underweight. Once the worst of the withdrawal is over and a healthy weight achieved, then the baby can be released from hospital. However, whoever fosters this child will need to visit the hospital from birth. It’s a big ask John, I know, but the baby will need a lot of care. Have a think about it. Talk to Sherlock. Let me know.”

In the end, John had more reservations than Sherlock about caring for a baby. Sherlock knew the pain of withdrawal and all he could think about was this poor, tiny baby experiencing that from the moment they were born. They sat in front of the fire going back and forth until 3 am, outlining all the changes they would have to make. Uppermost in John’s mind was the fact that the mother may take the child back at any time. He wasn’t sure if he could face that.

The following morning he rang Sue:

“We’ll do it. When is the baby due?” He heard Sue’s sigh of relief.

“In about three weeks but she could go into labour anytime really. Thanks John. You will make a real difference here”.

They spent the next few days in a maelstrom of preparation. A cot, changing unit, baby clothes, nappies, wipes, bottles, formula and steriliser were all bought. Each day that passed they waited for the phone to ring, killing the time with cases that were a three at the very most and never anything that took them away from London.

The call finally came at 6.30 am three days before the mother’s due date. It was a cold and windy day in November and John and Sherlock sat in the cab to the Royal London Hospital not saying much but holding hands as they made their way up to the neonatal care unit.

Sue met them at the door:

“It’s a girl. She was born at 5.23 a.m. weighing 6lbs 3 oz, which is not too bad under the circumstances. She spent some time with Mum, who gave her a name, Emelia. She is in an incubator and receiving pain relief and hydration. There is also some jaundice so she is having light therapy. The midwives gave her a feed and she is sucking well. Her next feed is due in about half an hour, give or take.”

They pushed through the swing doors into the high support neonatal unit. There were four incubators, all occupied by tiny babies. Sue brought them to the one closest to the window. There lay a delicate baby girl, dressed in a pink vest and hospital issue pink hat. She was sleeping, her tiny hands starfished above her head, her face turned to the left. The midwife smiled at them and when Sue introduced them as Dr. Watson and Mr Holmes, immediately began to give John the run down on her treatment.

Sherlock crouched next to the incubator and studied the tiny child intensely. She began to move her legs, awakening slightly. Sherlock smiled and whispered:

“It’s going to be just fine, Miss. Emelia. John and I are here now and we shall take the very best care of you. I promise”.


	25. Return to the Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the two prompts Wedding/Family Gathering and Siblings, which is why this is a bit longer than usual.
> 
> I have a suspicion that when Series 4 comes, we might not all feel so amenable towards Mycroft, so I decided to be be nice to him before he goes and ruins everything. There is a Very Special Guest Star.

John stomped up the stairs to 221b Baker Street dripping from the sudden downpour and regretting his decision to wear his new shoes to work. He started to complain as soon as he got to the 16th step.

“Unbe- _fucking_ -lievable Sherlock. I have had the day of all days. If one more _sodding_ person asks me if they have a bite from a banana spid…”

In front of the fireplace Sherlock and Mycroft stood glaring at one another. The atmosphere was tense, each man having drawn their backs straight. Sherlock’s hand was laid on the mantelpiece, fingers tapping an annoyed rhythm.

Being British, John instantly knew how to address such aggressive conflict. He had been in the Army, he knew things about de-escalation and conflict resolution,

“Tea?”

Both Holmes men glanced at him, neither having seemed to be aware of his presence until that moment.

“Please, John if you would be so kind,” Mycroft condescended. John’s husband, on the other hand, quivered slightly, glared once more at his brother and moved swiftly to John, kissing him gently on the temple and running his hand down from John’s shoulder to his waist where it came to rest. This was a bit not good, John knew. This was Sherlock’s “hold me back before I kill someone” position, his “this is your last chance to reason with me before I give my lower brain permission to take over”, or in John’s own shorthand “The Donovan Manoeuvre”.

John filled the kettle, took down the tea and cups and laid a tray. All the time, he felt Sherlock quivering at his side. Mycroft was carefully examining his polished brogues. John filled the teapot and brought the tray to his side table and was just about to take his considerable courage in his hands and ask what was actually going on, when Mycroft pre-empted him:

“John, I wish to request your assistance in a certain matter tomorrow. I have extended my request to my brother but, as yet, he seems unable to respond. As usual, I shall leave him in your capable hands, but whether or not he deems to attend, please understand that I would very much appreciate your own co-operation.  A car shall be sent for 11.30 am. It is a formal matter and a suit would be appropriate attire.”

Mycroft poured himself a cup of tea and sipped it, “I am afraid I am not at liberty to explain more, much to Sherlock’s disgust, but that is the situation.” He drained his cup, collected his coat and umbrella, “Sherlock do stop sulking. It is for the best this way. I very much hope to see you tomorrow. Good day.”

The moment he had left, Sherlock went off like a human land mine, “That devious, manipulative, self-serving git! How could he? How could he do this to me? To us?” He paced up and down the room, coming to a stop on top of the coffee table, hands on hips, shirt straining across his chest as he almost hyperventilated with temper. John, so used to his husband’s tantrums found himself distracted by the sight of Sherlock towering over him, pectoral’s heaving, a light sweat developing on his neck that sort of needed to be licked off:

“Sorry, what did you say?” John realised he had missed something important in the ranting, “getting married? Did you just say Mycroft is getting _married_?”

“Yes. Tomorrow. That’s where he wants us to go, his wedding. Do keep up John!” Sherlock climbed down and sat on the sofa with a thump.

“Did he actually say that? Before I came in? With actual words?”

Sherlock humphed impatiently “Of course he didn’t say it in words, so pedestrian, but it was there all over him. Even you should have seen how _happy_ he was!”

John was a bit stumped at that because feelings were supposed to be his department and he had honestly not seen any difference at all from Mycroft’s usual bland expression,

“Hang on. Who is he marrying?”

“Oh at last, you start asking the important questions.”

John considered being insulted but, frankly, couldn’t muster the energy,

“You don’t know? He didn’t tell you? You couldn’t deduce it?” John suspected he was getting to the nub of the problem.

“No,” Sherlock pouted and turned his back on John, curled up facing the wall and undertook a level nine sulk.

John left him to it, knowing almost to the minute that it would take at least four hours and twenty five minutes for Sherlock to re-engage with him, possibly five minutes sooner with the lure of either the right sort of dim sum or the even righter sort of blow job.

That gave him plenty of time for a hot shower, three more mugs of tea, ordering in dinner and reviewing his wardrobe for something suitable to wear tomorrow. In the end, he settled on his dark blue suit; if nothing else that might cheer Sherlock up. He spent the entire time running possibilities through his mind as to who Mycroft might indeed by marrying. He had absolutely no idea where on the sexuality spectrum his brother-in-law sat. If a gun had been put to his head, he would have said gay or, more likely, asexual.

He was certainly not aware of Mycroft having been in a relationship with anyone, male or female and was sure Sherlock would have told him. In the end, he decided Mycroft must be entering into some politically expedient marriage, maybe to the youngest daughter of a Russian oligarch. He would run this idea by Sherlock once he surfaced.

As it turned out, he didn’t get the chance. His long day, a big dinner and an undemanding husband meant that John fell asleep on the bed and was awoken the next morning by the sound of Sherlock showering. From the state of their bed, John could tell Sherlock had not joined him.

Silently slipping in to the bathroom, John crept in behind Sherlock in the shower, sliding his arms around the taller man’s waist,

“Mornin’ love. Did you sleep?”

Sherlock turned in the embrace and faced John,

“A couple of hours on the sofa.”

“How are feeling this morning?”

Sherlock let out a long sigh. He was running his hands up and down John’s back and reached behind John, filling his palm with shower gel and began to soap up his husband’s broad shoulders, back and solid biceps. One of the countless ways being married to John had changed him, despite his own best efforts, was that he was getting better at understanding, naming and talking about his emotions. He had spent the night working through his anger before realising it was based in disappointment and then, finally, hurt:

“He is in love John. I could see it all over him when he visited last night, but I have never seen it before then. He never revealed it to me and I am disappointed in myself for not deducing it but more hurt that he didn’t just  tell me.”

Well that put paid to the Russian oligarch’s daughter, John thought, growing hard under his husbands wandering hands as they now lathered up his chest, arse, top of his thighs and balls. He could see Sherlock’s point of view,

“You have no idea who he is getting married to then?”

“Nope.”

“Well, then. It’s going to be a surprise and you do love a surprise. Mycroft must have had his reasons for not telling you. Let’s just be glad he has found someone. I honestly never thought we would see the day.”

John leaned into Sherlock’s arms, rubbed the lather from his own chest onto Sherlock’s and kissed him, gently, teasingly until Sherlock was as hard as he was. One hand bracing himself against the tiles, he wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s wet cock and stroked slowly. Sherlock groaned and copied the idea, pulling John close to him with his free arm and leaning his head into his shoulder, nibbling and kissing. Sherlock came first, throwing his head back, the shower water cascading down his neck and chest as he shouted. John came quickly after him, holding on tightly, burying his face in that beautiful chest. No one mentioned Mycroft for quite a while.

They were stood waiting on the front doorstep when the car glided to a halt in front of them. John was resplendent in his dark blue suit, white shirt and a pale golden tie. Sherlock had decided on mid grey, with waistcoat, a new white shirt and even a tie. John was concentrating very hard on not dribbling from anywhere.

The car was empty, save for the driver, and headed south east, past Wellington’s Arch on the corner of Hyde Park and up Constitution Hill. As it became apparent they were actually turning _into_ Buckingham Palace, John and Sherlock exchanged raised eyebrows. Maybe Mycroft was marrying a minor British royal then?

They were dropped to a side door, held open for them by a waiting footman who ushered them into a small hall and then up a narrow flight of stairs. It was all plain and very much ‘below stairs’. At the top of the stairs, the footman opened a door and they stepped into a long hallway, lavishly decorated with gilt door frames, rich claret carpet and a row of crystal chandeliers. At the end of the hallway to their right was a floor to ceiling window. Beneath it, stood a figure.

Anthea walked towards them, stunning in an off-the-shoulder tea dance dress in a pale gold. The dress was cinched at the waist and then bloomed out with petticoats. Her hair was down, covering her shoulders and she wore four inch stilettos in matching pale gold.  She walked slowly towards the two men. John frowned enquiringly at Sherlock who merely shrugged. As she approached, John realised this was the first time he had ever seen the woman without her mobile in her hand. Instead she carried a small posy of golden yellow and cream roses.

“This way gentlemen. We’re all here now, we can make a start.”

Andrea pushed open the gilt door closest to them and they made their way into a small but beautiful room. It had a large arched window at the far end, overlooking the palace gardens, light reflecting off the row of silver candelabras lined up along the wooden table that ran the length of the room. The walls were decorated by huge landscapes, framed in gold and the carpet was more of the luxurious claret carpet. In front of the window were lined up eight gold gilt chairs, four on each side with a space between them.

Mycroft met them at the door, handsome in a dark grey morning suit, with a pale yellow rose in his lapel. He shook them both by the hand, still maintaining his usual serious demeanour:

“Thank you for coming, brother mine.” He turned to move away but John caught him the elbow:

“Bloody hell Mycroft, what are we doing here?” he asked under his breath.

“Security, John. My being married is not something we wish a considerable number of people to know. A friend of mine suggested this location and it seemed rude to decline. That,” he turned to address Sherlock, “is why you couldn’t know of the event before now. Certain precautions had to be put into place. My apologies. Now, if you don’t mind, I would rather like to get on with the matter at hand. Anthea, shall we?” If he didn’t know better, John would have thought he saw a sight hint of nerves.

They moved forward towards the chairs. A side door opened and John tried not to stare. He failed. In the door way was an elderly woman, dressed in an immaculate turquoise suit and matching hat.

“Mycroft, are you ready? Dominic is here to begin proceedings.” A young man followed her into the room and took up his place in front of the window, book in hand. Mycroft stood in front of him, slightly to the right.

“Yes, Ma’am, I believe we are. Anthea, would you be so kind?”

Anthea headed back to the door John and Sherlock had arrived through. The Queen took a seat at the front. John elbowed Sherlock in the ribs and through the power of eyebrows alone asked him what the hell they were supposed to do. Sherlock took his hand and approached The Queen.

“Your Majesty” he intoned, leaning forward and kissing the lady on the cheek, “may I introduce you to my husband, John Watson-Holmes”. The Queen extended her hand:

“Delighted to meet you at last, John, I have heard so much about you. Please, sit here next to me, I want to hear all about that little upset we had in Tottenham last month. I understand you and Sherlock were instrumental in resolving that robbery?”

John just nodded and sat, trying very hard not be overwhelmed and failing miserably. Sherlock had just sat on his other side and was squeezing his hand when the door behind them opened again.

If John had been surprised by the proceedings of the day so far, he was absolutely gobsmacked to see Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade striding purposefully down the room, arm in arm with Anthea. He was beaming at the small gathering but his biggest smile was saved for Mycroft, as Greg came to a stop by his side. Anthea took up her position at Mycroft’s right elbow. It was only then that it dawned on John and Sherlock that she was acting as Mycroft’s Best Woman.

The ceremony was short and very to the point. Mycroft pledged his love and protection to Greg who, in turn, promised his understanding, support and love. Rings were exchanged and as they sealed their marriage with a kiss, The Queen led the small party in getting to their feet, clapping and cheering.

After much hugging, handshaking and claps on the back, her Majesty took her leave and an equerry arrived to escort them to a small private dining room to celebrate. Pride of place in the middle of the table was a croquembouche, decorated with spun sugar, sugared almonds and crystallised flowers.

John was immediately at Greg’s side, two glasses of champagne in hand. He handed one to Greg:

“Congratulations, mate. It can be a rocky road being married to a Holmes but it’s well worth it. Now, tell me, how long are you two together and why all the secrecy, you bastard?”

Greg laughed, “Jesus John, you of all people should know how dangerous any point of weakness can be to a Holmes. If you think Sherlock’s got enemies, you should see all the people Croftie has pissed off over the years. If they knew about me, well, that could be game over for either of us. It’s not ideal, but I knew what I was getting into. We shall have to maintain separate houses but we’ll make it work, we’ve managed for two years and done so under the nose of the world’s greatest consulting detective. Bet he’s mad, isn’t he?”

John decided to remain loyal to his husband, “only a bit, he soon got over it.” The two glanced over to where their respective husbands were squabbling, Sherlock teasing Mycroft over the size of the wedding cake. Unexpectedly, Sherlock grinned at his brother and put out his hand. Mycroft took it and carefully pulled his little brother into a stiff, awkward hug that lasted just three seconds.

John and Greg laughed and sauntered over to join them. John kissed Sherlock and wondered how quickly he could get him out of that suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go! I will be combining the last 2 prompts as well.


	26. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The last story for my 30 'ahem' days of Sherlock. For the prompts eyes and glasses.

John smoothed the dark blue duvet cover where he sat on the edge of the bed, gazing out of the window at the cottage’s little garden, the vegetable patch he had battled the caterpillars for dominion over and, in the far distance, tucked under the ancient horse chestnut tree, Sherlock’s beehives. It was beginning to drizzle and a chill was settling in. He would need to put down a fire tonight.

He reached out to the bedside locker and picked up Sherlock’s glasses from where they lay, as always, lenses faced down and automatically turned them over so they were arms down in order save the lenses from being scratched. He knew it didn’t matter now but did it anyway, carefully leaving the glasses in easy reach of the bed. He would have to do something with them later but they felt too personal an item just to throw away.

He smiled at the framed photo sat behind the glasses. Their wedding photo. He looked into the eyes that had worn those glasses and remembered Sherlock’s vanity when he had finally admitted, almost ten years later than John himself, that he needed glasses to be able to read properly. John had teased Sherlock that he hadn’t wanted anything to spoil the line of his cheekbones.

In their many long years together people had often passed comment to John on those eyes. For some it was the straightforward beauty of their pale colour, sometimes blue, sometimes green with their splashes of gold and indigo. For others, their fascination had been in the way that a side long glance could pin you to the ground and a full on stare could slice through you, take the words from your mouth and leave you feeling like you were six again.

For all their physical beauty, John had always been far more astounded by what those eyes could actually see. From Sherlock’s sweep of a person followed by breakneck deductions to the infinitesimally small clues they collected at a crime scene, he has experienced their uniqueness a thousand times over. More importantly, though was the way Sherlock truly saw John, the way he had seen John the first time they had met, looking past the comfy exterior to the very heart and identity of the man. Then winked at him.

He wondered where Sherlock was now. It didn’t matter really, where ever he was John would soon follow him, nothing in this universe was more certain. From the day they had met, John Watson had followed wherever Sherlock Holmes led and he knew he always would.

His musings were disturbed by the banging of the cottage’s back door,

“John, John where are you?”

“Back here in the bedroom. What’s wrong?”

“What are you doing sitting …. I’ve lost by bloody glasses again, do you know where they are? I need them to be able to drive into Brighton to collect my new ones. Come _on_ John!”

John Watson levered himself up, groaning at the stiffness in his knees and followed Sherlock out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. This challenge has been an experience and I am fairly certain some of these chapter will be reworked, added to, combined or start something else altogether.


End file.
